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VOICES IN THE WILDERNESS 









VOICES IN 
THE WILDERNESS 


JOHN RESSICH 



NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 







Copyright, 1924 

BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 


All Bights Reserved 



Printed In the United States of America 

FFB18 *24 'l 

©C1A777183 L- 



'Ha 



CONTENTS 


PAGB 

By the Light of the Moon. 3 

How She Came Home. 31 

Je M’en Fiche.49 

The Coroner’s Tale.71 

“Scots Wha Hae”.91 

A Tragedy .Ill 

Absolutely.129 

Culot Infernal.159 

The Ring . . . . ;.189 

The Real Thing.217 



















BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 









BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


Wherefore didst thou flee away secretly and steal away from 
me? 

—Genesis 

T HIS is the story of Jim Card’s luck. 

The popular conception of what consti¬ 
tutes good luck is the acquiring of money 
fortuitously—in short, to most people, it is what 
the other fellow is blessed with. Jim’s lucky star, 
like himself, may have been a trifle casual, but it 
never let things go too far. Setting theories and 
stars to one side, Jim Card’s luck was really him¬ 
self. With his frank sunny nature, he made so 
many friends, that whenever he found himself in a 
hole some good fellow would rush up to pull him 
out. And holes were then fatally easy to get into 
in Paris. 

In the old days in the Quarter, his luck was pro¬ 
verbial; notably in the Rue Campagne Premiere, 
that patchwork warren of studios off the Boulevard 
Montparnasse. But the pitcher seemed to have gone 
once too often to the well. 

3 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


It was Birchard who told me the news, as, with 
an expletive, he laid down a much-folded news¬ 
paper. Birchard is physically a big man and your 
big man generally has a soft spot somewhere. 
Birchard’s weakness is an ever-recurring nostalgia 
for his home in the Middle West, which he assidu¬ 
ously nourishes by having local American news¬ 
papers posted—mailed he calls it—across to him in 
Paris or wherever he may find himself. 

“It looks as if Jim Card’s luck had taken the 
count at last,” he remarked. “There’s been a whale 
of a fire in Plunkerville and their Museum and Art 
Gallery’s a little cinder. My! poor Jim’ll be mad. 
I guess his guardian angel’s made the wrong noise 
this time. Why, that’s where they had his master¬ 
piece—you remember his Town Crier of Maars- 
drecht’?” 

Yes, I remembered it, and as the truly terrible 
phase of painting to which it belonged is happily 
only a memory, we will not dissect the dead past. 
Yet the tragedy to the artist must have been real, 
for the picture marked the apogee of his career. 

Although he did not exactly shout about it 
through a megaphone, in his early days Jim Card 
helped to keep the wolf from biting him by frog- 
ging out portraits of the citizens of Plunkerville. 

4 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 

The process was simple. A photograph and fifty 
dollars arrived in Paris: within six weeks a life- 
size, if not life-like, half-length “portrait in oils” 
unframed but mailed free, would reach Plunker- 
ville. He was a slick performer, was Jim Card— 
“Monsieur Card , vous avez trop de facilite,” the 
professor at Cularossi’s said to him one day in 
the atelier. 

Once when on a visit home he actually painted 
an old lady’s deceased husband from memory 
aided by her description. 

“Ain’t it just real elegant,” said the old dame 
when she saw it finished. “That hat: that coat 
and that watch-chain, but my! how he has changed 
in ten years.” 

At the time Jim Card’s “Town Crier” was 
painted, America was having one of her Support 
Home Industry waves, and the wave flowed right 
over Plunkerville. When it rolled along, Plunker- 
ville was submerged in a floodtide of acute pros¬ 
perity. The track which the Great Central had 
run through the district had brought the usual 
benefits of civilization to the previously sleepy 
little burg. It already boasted newspapers and 
tramlines, and the minds of the city fathers were 
beginning to turn from sewage to science: from 
5 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 

appropriation to art. In this they were led by old 
Colonel Plunker, their perennial Mayor. Despite 
the wealth that oil had brought him, his mental 
horizon was bounded by Plunkerville. He 
reckoned that Plunkerville was good enough for 
him: he had lived there all his life and reckoned 
he would die there. The worst “knocker” in the 
town had a good word for old Sam Plunker. But 
in his reckonings, he further reckoned, that, be¬ 
fore he joined his fathers, he would see Plunker¬ 
ville the Art Centre of the Middle West, sir. 
Numerous other towns were similarly afflicted but 
that only added impetus to the Plunkerville Move¬ 
ment. When Whisky Bill,* reformed, and the 
Art Hope of another Western State, announced 
years later: “No sir, we’re go in’ to stand pat on 
our own stuff in future,” he unconsciously pla¬ 
giarised the Mayor of Plunkerville—and probably 
hundreds of others. 

The desire to become an Art Centre has at¬ 
tacked many communities. 

When the news that the building of the Museum 
and Art Gallery of his native town was nearing 
completion, filtered through to Jim Card in Paris, 
he became restive and despondent. In more than 
* The Plains. “Oddly Enough.” 

6 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


one recent issue of the leading Plunkerville news¬ 
paper, inspired references to him had appeared— 
it has been explained that Jim Card made friends 
everywhere. The hope was frequently expressed 
that some representative work by “Plunkerville’s 
gifted son” would be the first picture to grace the 
walls of the section to be devoted to the display 
of native art. 

Unhappily jast then the gifted son was in the 
throes of a more than usually severe attack of 
financial cramp. One of Jim Card’s oft-enun¬ 
ciated theories—he was a fluent and amusing 
talker—was that the impecunious should always 
avoid a multiplicity of creditors. He called his 
thesis the Concentration of Indebtedness. In prac¬ 
tice thereof, he owed his concierge one hundred 
and eighty francs for rent. 

In his building the concierge was a woman. 
She was a strident-voiced iron-faced spinster of 
uncertain age who waged perpetual feud with all 
the tenants and had just delivered her ultimatum. 
Jim’s pleading was of no avail: his pleasant smile 
and soft western drawl, which would have enticed 
the birds off the trees, were wasted on the shrew. 

But, as usual his luck held. 

Simultaneously with the concierge’s ultimatum 
7 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


a registered packet arrived from Plunkerville, out 
of which tumbled the usual photograph of a late- 
lamented and a draft for francs two hundred and 
fifty. 

The situation, as Jim Card saw it, called for 
consideration: for strategy. Properly applied two 
hundred and fifty francs might affect his whole 
future. Yet the old gorgon knew right well that 
he had received money. All concierges in time 
become expert spies. She had learned from ex¬ 
perience what these registered packets postmarked 
Plunkerville contained, and stated so significantly 
when she handed this one to him. 

On what followed it is not necessary to moral¬ 
ise: this is a true story, not a tract. Jim Card had 
determined to paint a masterpiece for the coming 
Salon. Something so large and impressive, that 
when the fame of it reached Plunkerville, its lead¬ 
ing citizens would pay so handsomely to prevent 
it falling into the unworthy hands of some other 
town, that his troubles would cease forever. He 
had lately heard of a paradise for artists in the 
neck of Holland near Haarlem. The sleepy little 
town of Maarsdrecht was then hardly more than 
a village. There everything was cheap: every¬ 
thing unspoilt and confiding. The leading feature 
8 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 

of the landscape was, naturally, windmills, and the 
leading industry was apparently the raising of 
sheep for the successors of Anton Mauve to im¬ 
mortalise on canvas. In this idyllic retreat he 
would find asylum—or some person who ought to 
he in one—and create the masterpiece which, via 
the fast approaching Salon, would ultimately 
reach Plunkerville. If he left at once, he had 
worked it out that he could arrive at Maarsdrecht 
with two hundred francs clear. 

But he still had to get out of Paris with his 
things and to remove his belongings. Medusa 
watched the only gate. Well versed was she in the 
ways of young and sanguine artists. 

What a wonderful grindstone is impecuniosity 
for the sharpening of wits. Before the night was 
over Jim Card’s plan was laid, tested and put into 
practise by willing helpers. 

His studio was right at the back of the building 
through the courtyard. To have attempted to 
carry his furniture and belongings across the 
courtyard past the concierge’s wigwam, would 
have been as sensible as sending her a note an¬ 
nouncing the flitting. Besides, someone remem¬ 
bered that just then the moon was full, and the 
yard would be almost as bright as at mid-day. 

9 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


But right above the concierge’s loge dwelt a sport¬ 
ing brother brush. After some cautious prelim¬ 
inary scouting, it was discovered that it would 
be possible to work goods and chattels along by 
devious paths inside the building to his studio 
at the entrance. From there, the conspirators 
hoped, when the concierge was tired out, to pass 
the contents of Jim Card’s studio into the street 
and along to a neighbouring studio, where another 
Samaritan would house them against the possible 
return of the wanderer. The noise of the removal 
had to be covered by a counter-blast. Fortunately 
for Jim Card, a vocal obbligato was the cheapest 
and most readily obtainable thing in the Quarter. 
To prepare the way, he informed the concierge 
that he expected a few friends along in the even¬ 
ing to celebrate a commission he had just received. 
He expressed a hope that any little noise they 
might make would not keep her off her sleep. 

He was reminded of his debt and received a 
description of himself and his ways that would 
have made even a carter blush. His concierge 
would probably have disagreed with the Greek 
philosopher who postulated that suffering produces 
refinement of character. 

A comer of the fifty dollars had been judi¬ 
ciously expended in importing sustenance for the 
10 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


volunteers, and right heartily they rose to it. 
About midnight the removal was stealthily begun 
while pandemonium broke out. 

Led by two enthusiasts with wildly twanging 
banjos, the guests sang and yelled and stamped 
their feet as Jim Card’s pieces were bumped and 
pushed through the twisting turns, while Whisky 
Bill’s guaranteed genuine Indian war-whoops 
made the welkin shudder as an extra large piece 
was hustled along. Vainly the concierge shouted 
up from her window for silence. Other inhabi¬ 
tants, knowing what was going on, threw up their 
windows and accused the wretched virago of dis¬ 
turbing them and preventing them sleeping. 
Indignantly she denied the accusations. Every 
time she yelled for silence she found herself in¬ 
volved in a three-cornered shouting contest, through 
which the war-whoops rang and the banjos 
twanged. Bit by bit the removal went on. 

It was nearly three of the morning when the 
full moon, shining down on Paris which never 
sleeps, saw the long procession of revellers move 
out in dead silence. Each shouldered something 
—an easel, a chair, a piece of bedroom furniture. 

Two days later Jim Card arrived at Maars- 
drecht. His luck was holding. 

“I had forgotten all about Jim,” Birchard went 
11 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 

on. “I had been painting pretty hard, and was 
feeling all balled up and wanting a change. I’d 
sold a few pictures, and thought I’d give myself 
a look at the old Dutch Masters so I hiked over 
to Amsterdam. I like that place. Well, do you 
know, I’d only been there a few days when I got 
a frantic letter from Jim Card at Maarsdrecht. As 
usual, he was in a terrible fix, and someone he’d 
written to in Paris had given him my address in 
Amsterdam. He wrote and asked me for heaven’s 
sake to come right along as between us he thought 
we could handle it. It wasn’t money he wanted, 
but a strong man’s help. I was glad of that, as 
I’d none too many chips myself just then, and 
of course I knew it wasn’t a ruse. Jim ain’t that 
sort. So I beat it for Maarsdrecht, quick. 

“The boob had forgotten to put any address 
on his letter, but I didn’t worry about that. I felt 
I wouldn’t be long in picking up his tracks, so I 
took the train early the next morning to Laren, 
and started out to walk the four miles to Maars¬ 
drecht. 

“It was a bleak, wet gusty March day. The sky 
was a nasty depressing grey, and the rain seemed 
to have water-logged the whole country with its 
everlasting canals and windmills. Presently a 
12 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


red-cheeked gink comes in from a side-road with 
a little milk-cart, drawn by three hard-pulling cow- 
hocked dogs. The cans were empty, so I slung my 
grip on board, and we squelched along—at least 
I squelched, and he clumped in his clogs. Mighty 
useful things clogs in a damp country. When I 
struck the little place, I was pretty thankful to get 
inside an inn and give my milkman a glass of 
schnapps and surround one myself. I don’t know 
much Dutch, but I gathered there’s a store in the 
place, in the oil and colour line, that sells paints 
and canvas, so the landlord sends his little boy— 
they’re a mighty obliging lot the country Dutch— 
along to shew it to me. So little chubby-cheeks 
totes me along to the store. 

“Oh, yes, they knew the American Mynheer 
Card all right, all right, and I guessed from the 
way the oil and colour merchant spoke—he knew 
French by the way—lots of these squareheads do 
—that Jim had got into his ribs for a goodish bit. 
When he calmed down, I gathered that Jim was 
boarding at a farm a short distance away, and 
as chubby-cheeks didn’t seem to mind the rain, he 
took me along. He told me as he trotted along¬ 
side, that he was learning English at school but 
didn’t have much chance to practise. They’re an 
13 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


industrious bunch, the Dutch, and I guess they’re 
pretty hard to throw. 

“So we struck the farm, and there was old Jim, 
hanging around looking as sick as a vulture in a 
cage, but he brightened up considerable when I 
came along. First of all, he borrows some money 
from me, and gives it to the little clog-walloper 
to cut back to his pa, and bring along a bottle of 
schnapps—large size. 

“ ‘I don’t care about going near the town any 
more,’ Jim explained. Then he takes me inside a 
great big barn, and shows me his masterpiece. 

“It wasn’t a picture at all. It was a monumen¬ 
tal colour treatise on the Fourth Dimension. Big 
pictures were mighty popular then, but his simply 
beat the band. I suppose Rembrandt’s ‘Night 
Watch’ must have set the tune ticking in his head. 
As you know, he called it ‘The Town Crier of 
Maarsdrecht.’ He’d got the Maarsdrecht town 
square for a setting; and, with the local town-crier 
heating his drum for a central figure, he’d 
crammed in every darned thing he could get his 
hands on. 

“He seemed mighty proud of it so I said noth¬ 
ing unpleasant, but to look at it made me feel like 
I’d over-eaten myself. 


14 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


“For once, he had not been able to apply his 
theory of Concentration of Indebtedness. Except 
the farmer he lived with, he owed florins to ’most 
everybody in the place. The town crier had sat— 
or stood—for no end of days and weeks, and 
had figured it out that the fame of immortality 
was less interesting to him than prompt cash. He 
was calling daily just at that time. There were 
bags of others, but they were only what you might 
call interrogative when they met Jim. The town- 
crier evidently was distinctly importunate. He 
had quite a talent for schnapps—indeed, accord¬ 
ing to Jim Card, he was the champion booze-fighter 
of the district, and whenever he happened to get 
his load on early in the day, he rolled over to call 
on Jim. Poor old Jim had struck a trying propo¬ 
sition. 

“Jim explained the position. The picture was 
actually finished, but so was his credit—and he 
might have to sit watching his masterpiece for ten 
days or more while it dried. However—Jim’s 

luck again! I tell you if Jim Card fell down a 
coal-hole, instead of breaking his neck, he’d be 
pulled out with an option on the whole concession 
in his fist. He had discovered a friend in need. 
This friend was a young joiner, Piet Vermeer, 
15 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


who spoke French and lived with his grandmother 
in a mill about half a mile away. Jim had ar¬ 
ranged to take the picture over to the mill through 
the night. The joiner had promised to keep it 
till it was dry, then he would roll it up and send 
it right along to Jim in Paris, where he could 
raise enough to get it framed for the Salon show. 

“Now the joiner would not do anything more than 
store it—he would not take any part in carrying 
it over. Why he should do the one and not the 
other I can’t think, but there it was. The stretcher 
the canvas was on was amazingly strong, strength¬ 
ened at the corners with iron straps, and so that 
we might get a hold without touching the wet paint, 
Jim had stuck a lot of ring-bolts round the wooden 
frame and let a half-inch rope through. It looked 
like the life-lines round the side of a lifeboat. 

“While Jim was talking to me in the shelter of 
the big bam door, the little boy came back with 
the schnapps. Jim pats his head and gives him 
the change. Then he sets the bottle in a comer. 

“ ‘That’s for my landlord to-night,’ he says, ‘old 
Jan Joost. He’ll be along presently.’ Then he 
takes me out to show me where the Vermeer mill 
lies and point out the road we would have to take 
that night. 


16 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


“Just as he was doing that, a little, wizened 
pippin of a man clumps along towards us. He 
had on a big flat-brimmed hat, blouse, baggy 
knickerbockers caught under the knee, and, of 
course, clogs on his thin shanks. He was muttering 
as he clattered along. 

“ ‘Here’s my town-crier,’ says Jim in a flat sort 
of voice. That little man must have been worry¬ 
ing him considerable. ‘If I can put this through,’ 
he says, ‘I’m a made man and I’ll come back and 
pay them all twice over.’ And Jim takes him back 
into the barn. Presently I hears the cork go and 
pretty soon the old gink stumped out looking dis¬ 
tinctly brighter. He takes off his hat to me, so I 
guess Jim had tipped me off as the rich uncle from 
’way South. 

“We had our evening meal before a roaring fire 
at one end of the bam, with the farmer and vrouw 
Joost and eight tow-headed, blue-eyed, apple¬ 
cheeked children. You could hardly tell them 
apart, but I counted them twice before the 
schnapps was put on the table. Except the biggest 
and the youngest, there didn’t seem to be much 
difference in their ages, but of course Holland is 
the home of this intensive culture that we hear so 
much about. At the other end of the barn three 
17 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 

cows lay around in straw, calmly chewing their cuds, 
and hens roosted all over the place. The smells 
were various and clamorous, but, I guess, pretty 
healthy. In the middle, opposite the door stood 
the picture. 

“Whenever the table had been cleared, the chil¬ 
dren were bundled off to bed in a body. Each one 
turned and ducked its tow-head as they went out, 
saying: ‘goede nacht, mynheer .’ I’ve remarked 
that they’re mighty polite people, the country 
Dutch. 

“Then Jim brought along the bottle and vrouw 
Joost produced thick glasses. We sat around the 
table in front of the fire, and smoked and talked— 
at least Jim and Jan Joost did while I listened 
to the gale roaring outside. Vrouw Joost sat like 
a fat doll, with a hand on each knee, and beamed 
on us. I thought the storm would taper off a bit, 
but it seemed to get worse as the night went on. 

“Jim had told me that they were early-to-bed- 
and-up-with-the-sparrows folk, and he reckoned 
that a little schnapps would send them off earlier, 
and make them sleep sound. He was wrong. Old 
Joost began to get as merry as a coon at a clam¬ 
bake. Jim tried to head him off the bottle, but 
he was only wasting his time. Then the happy 
18 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


farmer started in to sing songs. Well, that’s not 
strictly true, for he only knew one, but he sang it 
pretty often. Then he got up and danced as he 
sang, while his vrouw beamed till her eyes nearly 
disappeared. 

“To the tune of La Mattiche—you remember it 
—he shouted: 

‘Het hondtje van de slager, 

‘Dat was zoo mager.’ 


The story of the dog of the butcher that was so 
thin ran to quite a lot of verses. 

“In different circumstances, it would have been 
an uplifting picture of rustic happiness and con¬ 
tentment, like what inspired the old Dutch Masters, 
but the hours were slipping past, and Jim began 
to look mighty anxious. And no wonder, for we 
had to get that darned great panorama across to 
the mill. It was good and comfortable in the barn, 
but outside, the wind was screaming, like resined 
string. However the bottle was finished at last, 
and we got them off. We had to make a pretense 
of going to bed too, so to fill in the time we packed 
up Jim’s things to be all ready. I had not opened 
my grip at all. 

“Then at last we heard the pair of them snoring 
19 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


through the wall. We crept back into the barn, 
and quietly opened one side of the big door. 

“It was lucky for us that we had only opened 
one side, for the wind simply threw it back and 
nearly laid the pair of us flat. The gale swept 
into the barn with a swirl and splatter of rain that 
brought one of the cows to its feet in alarm, and 
blew ashes broadcast from the fireplace. We 
threw our shoulders against the half-door and 
slowly shoved it back. One lamp was blown clean 
out, so we relit it and looked at each other in 
despair. It seemed pretty hopeless. We listened 
anxiously to hear if the row had wakened the 
Joosts, but the snores of the worthy couple still 
rose triumphant in a discordant blend of bass and 
treble. 

“We each lit one of the cheap cigars I had 
brought along from Amsterdam, and, after blow¬ 
ing the ashes off the seats we sat down to wait 
while the storm screamed and moaned outside. 
Our cigars were pretty well through before we 
noticed a lull. I wanted to go to bed and wait 
over till the next night, but Jim was all on the 
jump, so we opened the half-door again. It wasn’t 
just such a roaring typhoon then, so we tackled the 
picture. Before we started Jim built up the fire. 

20 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 

He said we would need it when we got back—he 
was right. 

“Fourteen by eight Jim called it, and in the dim 
light it seemed like forty by eight. We had to 
put out the lamps, but the fire gave us enough light 
to edge through the door. We locked it outside, 
and started—Jim led, and I steered. Just like 
that night when Jim skipped it from the Rue Cam- 
pagne Premiere, there was a beautiful full moon, 
and the goat’s hair clouds were flying across it in 
scudding gusts. It rained in sheets, and the wind 
was pretty hearty. When we came out past the 
comer of the bam, a blast took us and we were 
blown flat down with the picture on top of us. 

“That was the start. Fortunately we had held 
the painted side towards the wind. We crawled 
out cautiously and Jim said it was all his fault 
and I said not at all, it’s mine, so we took a fresh 
hold and started off again. 

“Before we got clear, I think we were blown 
up against every upright thing in and around that 
farm. We must have looked like one of those 
pantomime horses as we lurched and staggered 
and the wind banged us about. Once it got under¬ 
neath and I thought we were goin’ up like a para¬ 
chute. Jim, of course, had planned a short cut 
21 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


over some fields. The first one we found ourselves 
in was turnips. I don’t know whether the darned 
things had been picked, or pulled, or cut, or what¬ 
ever it is that they do to them, or whether they 
were still growing, but they were mighty promi¬ 
nent, and the rain had made them as slippery as 
axle-grease. I never realised that anything could 
grow so close—Dutch intensive methods I suppose. 
Heaven knows how many there were in that field, 
but I fancy I sat or knelt on most of them. And 
always hanging on to that darned panorama so you 
hadn’t a hand to break the fall. Sometimes we 
went over together and sometimes one went down 
and pulled the other over. We’d quit being polite 
and we grew hoarse cursing each other, but it 
didn’t matter as the gale blew it all away. 

“A diagram of our short cut would be inter¬ 
esting. We were tacking like a yacht beating up 
into a hurricane, and must have covered miles in 
one little field. However we crossed it—at least 
the turnips came to an end. Thank God they don’t 
go in much for hedges in Holland. Jim had told 
me that the next field was grass. It may have 
been but when we struck it it was a lake with good- 
sized waves. I told Jim that a little more water 
wouldn’t hurt the picture, and wanted to float it 
22 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


across like a raft. That made him mad, and we 
yelled compliments at each other while we huddled 
behind the masterpiece, and struggled to keep it 
from falling over on us. 

“The moon was clouded over when we started 
again, and began to pick our way along between 
the water and the turnips. Then the moon came 
out once more, and we struck the road to the mill 
and staggered along that. Presently we could hear 
the squeaking and creaking of the old pins, and 
when we stopped and looked round the comers of 
the picture, we could see the whirling arms by the 
light of the moon. We worked around to get right 
down-wind from the mill, and finished in a stum¬ 
bling trot on the lee-side. 

“Young Vermeer must have been keeping a 
sharp look-out, and seen us coming, for the door 
opened at once, and we lurched into the big room 
on the ground floor. Late though it was, the grand¬ 
mother was sitting by the fire to welcome us. A 
delightful old lady, with her snow-white starched 
mutch, she might have stepped right out of one of 
Franz Hals’s pictures. She threw up her hands in 
horror when she saw us, and no wonder: we were 
each just one animated mass of sopping mud. 
Jim’s hat had blown heaven knows where—mine 
28 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


was in my pocket and the left side of his face was 
all bloody where he had hit the cobbles, the first 
time we were blown over. 

“Young Vermeer had humped the picture away 
single-handed. They don’t run much to height, the 
Dutch, but they’re pretty husky folk: he had fore¬ 
arms like hams. Presently he came back and 
beamed on us. They don’t laugh or make noises 
much the Dutch—they just beam. 

“Then the old lady she was beaming too, and 
shoving hot chocolate at us. I’d be ashamed to 
say how many cups we took, and the more we 
drank, the more the pair of them beamed. Then 
Vermeer he toted out a bottle of wonderful rum. 

“All things considered, we were feeling pretty 
good when we stepped out into the mix-up of the 
howling storm, but we had it on our backs this 
time, and we kept to the road as far as we could 
in the dark. We let ourselves into the barn as 
quiet as mice, and the noise of the wind gave good 
cover. We had meant to turn in and sleep for an 
hour or two, but we hadn’t the heart to touch the 
good vrouw’s sheets in the mess we were, so we 
kicked up the fire and stripped off our clothes to 
the edification of the cows and hens. We spent 
our time till daybreak cleaning our boots and 
24 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


clothes. Then Jim laid out the money he owed 
old Jan Joost, and we took our things and stole 
out. 

“The wind had died down as we made a sweep 
to dodge Maarsdrecht. Jim wasn’t looking for 
that location just then. The whole landslide was 
water-logged and the damp seemed to have fresh¬ 
ened up that strange scent of earth and warm new 
milk that I always associate with Holland. Every 
city to-day merely stinks of petrol, but it hasn’t 
yet smothered each country’s defined odour. 

“Except for the slow creaking of the windmill or 
the croaking of frogs and an occasional cock crow¬ 
ing, there wasn’t a sound as we hurried along to 
the station. We wondered what the good people 
of Maarsdrecht—especially the town-crier, would 
think when they discovered that the two Americanos 
had gone and the picture vanished. But of course 
he went back and paid them all—in fact he mar¬ 
ried a Dutch girl. 

“Well, young Vermeer sent along the canvas to 
Jim when it was dry and it got an honourable men¬ 
tion at the Salon—I guess Jim made sure the 
judges couldn’t overlook it. Of course, after that, 
Plunkerville simply couldn’t help buying it and, 
before you could turn around, they’d cabled the 
25 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


thousand dollars, and it was on its way across. 
But it sounds to me as if Jim’s hoodooed his luck 
somehow—walked under a ladder or forgotten 
to say good morning to a chimney-sweep.” 

Unless truth were stranger than fiction many 
writers would starve. One of the first people I 
ran into not a week later at The Hague was Jim 
Card. For an artist he looked quite incongruously 
prosperous. He was much stouter than in the old 
Rue Campagne Premiere days, and harmonised 
wonderfully with his surroundings. I recalled 
Birchard’s story of the ill-fated masterpiece and 
made haste to condole with the artist, but he cut 
me short. 

“Why, that’s the luckiest thing that’s happened 
to me in years,” he cried as he led me into the 
smoking room of the Hotel Bellevue. “The drinks 
are on me. We’ll have two schnapps and bitters, 
Kellner /” he called to a passing waiter, “twee 
bitterjes,” and without giving me time to speak, 
he pushed me into a chair and sat beside me. 

“Why,” he said, “that picture was a nightmare 
to me. Even when I saw it hanging in the Salon, 
I felt like hiring a fellow to kick me, but I needed 
the money—bad. I’ve prayed for earthquakes— 
I’ve laid awake nights scheming to get it away. 

26 


BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 


When I was back home last fall, and the full hor¬ 
ror of it struck me afresh; I rounded up the Com¬ 
mittee and offered them their money back, or to 
paint them a dozen new ones—anything to get it 
abolished—and old Sam Moore got that mad I 
thought he was going to shoot me. They couldn’t 
see me in it all, an’ thought I was reflectin’ on their 
taste. I’ve brooded over that picture till I was 
seriously thinking of hiring some anarchists out 
of collar to bomb the place. 

“When I got that newspaper cutting, I felt like 
Sinbad when he gave his old man the final shake. 
Pretty good eh? Well the next mail brought a 
letter from the Committee offering me my own 
terms for one to replace it. Let’s have two more 
— Kellner! Twee meer Bitterjes.” 

Yes, Jim’s luck was holding. 


27 










HOW SHE CAME HOME 




HOW SHE CAME HOME 


Some books are lies frae end to end, 

But this that I am gaun to tell 
Is just as true’s the Dell’s in hell 
Or Dublin City. 

—Burns 



HIS is a sad and painful tale, with several 


morals. Beyond doubt many societies 


-A. will desire to have it reprinted and dis¬ 
tributed in the form of a tract. 

It was, I think, Buckle who decided that ability 
to foresee events is the highest form of human 
intelligence, and, as Cranberry was generally 
content to immerse himself in the immediate 
present, Buckle would have found him disappoint¬ 
ing. 

That Cranberry should have joined the Royal 
Firth Yacht Club was the perfectly natural re¬ 
sult of a worthy social ambition. The members, 
if not quite the salt of the earth, at any rate con¬ 
sidered themselves the salt of the district. His 
enthusiasm, taking wings, then led him to the pur- 


31 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


chase of a real yacht. True, she cut no consider¬ 
able figure, being only a twenty-one footer, but 
little fish are proverbially sweet and it was Cran¬ 
berry’s first essay. Had his enthusiasm not at the 
same time landed him into the purchase of a tri¬ 
pod-stand telescope, which he and his admiring 
wife duly erected on their garden overlooking the 
Firth, he might to-day still skim its waters, a free 
man, instead of—but to our tale: 

Having taken over the boat, he only waited till 
he had got delivery of his “yachting suit,” com¬ 
plete with badged cap, to arrange an inaugural 
cruise. Conscious that he lacked any great ex¬ 
perience in sailing, he decided that it might be 
profitable to ask the person from whom he pur¬ 
chased his craft to accompany him—a somewhat 
harum-scarum youth, answering to the slightly 
pantomimic name of Tommy Small. That worthy 
assured Cranberry that nothing could possibly give 
him more pleasure, and asked if he might bring 
his pal, Johnny Stout, a veritable bird of a 
feather. 

Bright and breezy was the fateful June morning 
when the trio assembled at the club-house. 

“Now look here, you boys,” said Cranberry, as 
he ushered them out on to the lawn, where for some 
32 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


function or another a marquee had been erected, 
“I don’t know the meaning of this tent arrange¬ 
ment, but you two just sit down in it, and stay 
there and order anything you like. I’m off to get 
into my sailing things.” So saying, he hurried 
away. 

Presently the pair saw the gladsome sight of an 
ancient servitor shuffling across the lawn with two 
brimming whiskies and sodas on a tray. “Nice 
momin’ for a sail, gentlemen,” he began; “aye, an’ 
if this is tae yer likin’, jist say the word. Maister 
Cranberry, he said I wasna tae stint ye.” Swiftly 
two faces disappeared behind the tumblers. Sim¬ 
ultaneously they reappeared, and Small said: 
“Couldn’t be better.” 

Off paddled the old worthy. To and fro he 
worked his passage across the lawn, and without 
protest the enthusiastic pair strove hard to see that 
their host’s good intentions should at least get a 
chance. What ultimately might have happened, it 
is difficult to conjecture, especially as the course 
the waiter was beginning to steer was becoming 
sufficiently erratic to show that he too had fro 
intention of missing such an opportunity, when 
fortunately the reappearance of Cranberry termi¬ 
nated the proceedings. Somewhat shocked, not 
33 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


morally, but at the fact that he was being left be¬ 
hind, he hurriedly disappeared into the club-house. 
Getting outside a couple for himself to make up 
any leeway, he marshalled his forces and pro¬ 
ceeded towards the harbour, where the good ship 
Hilda, dutifully christened after his wife, swung 
at anchor, her moorings having not yet been laid 
down. 

As they passed the “Cross Keys” inn, Cran¬ 
berry, hastily excusing himself—a somewhat su¬ 
perfluous thing to do in such company—dived 
within, and anon emerged with an enormous par¬ 
cel, the shape and size of which would have caused 
the late Sir Wilfred, of ever blessed memory, to 
throw a fit. 

Rejoining his charges, he hailed the club boat. 
The three made their way on board without acci¬ 
dent, and presently slipped out between the pier¬ 
heads in what the fisher folk thereabouts call “a 
fine sma’ watter breeze.” 

Pleasantly the time passed as the little craft 
sped along. Cranberry’s parcel being duly in¬ 
spected, healths individual and general were en¬ 
thusiastically drunk, and the dead men marked the 
Hilda’s course in time-honoured fashion. At mid¬ 
firth the breeze took off, and the water looking 
34 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 

tempting in the brilliant sun, nothing would please 
Johnny Stout but that he should go over the side 
for a swim. Little knowing that the watchful Mrs. 
Cranberry, ever since they started, had been stand¬ 
ing with an apprehensive eye glued to the brand- 
new telescope, the other two had a cheery if risky 
game of doing their best to drown the unfortunate 
Johnnie, by paying away and leaving him every 
time he got alongside. Finally he did manage to 
get on board, and as soon as he recovered his wind 
he proceeded to abuse the others in no measured 
terms, while the yacht hung about in irons. Hav¬ 
ing patched up the feud and thrown the empty 
peacemakers overboard, the Hilda was headed in a 
freshening wind for the haven of their choice on 
the other side of the Firth. Smoothly she swung 
to in the little bay, and the hook was dropped. As 
smartly as might have been expected of people in 
their condition, the sails were housed and all made 
shipshape—more or less. Having assured them¬ 
selves that nothing wet remained on board, they 
hailed a passing rowing-boat, and, feeling that 
all they desired was worlds to conquer, they landed 
at the quaint old stone pier, once the starting-point 
of many a bygone venture, now the stamping 
ground of yachting enthusiasts and trippers. 

35 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


No one who has followed our friends’ progress 
thus far would be astonished to learn that their 
first visit was to the first hotel they passed—or, 
rather, did not pass. 

Into “The Crescent” they walked, and blithe 
was the landlord’s greeting. “Here’s a wire for 
ye, Maister Cranberry,” said he, passing the buff 
envelope across with the air of conferring a 
favour. 

Nervously Cranberry ripped open the envelope, 
read and reread the message, then, gazing for a 
moment in silence at his companions, he snorted 
and thrust the missive into his pocket, calling for 
his glass, for all the world as if he had been Old 
King Cole himself. Not wishing to appear in¬ 
quisitive, Small and Stout could only exchange 
glances and wonder; then, as Cranberry was obvi¬ 
ously becoming fidgety, they suggested a move. 
“Yes, let’s go to Macbean’s for lunch,” said he, 
as they marched out. And to Macbean’s, another 
of the village hostels catering for the merry trip¬ 
per, they bent their, it must be admitted, somewhat 
faltering steps. 

“Weel, weel, Maister Cranberry,” was Mac¬ 
bean’s welcome, “I was jist waitin’ for ye tae turn 
up—here’s a telegram for ye.” The envelope 
36 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


changed hands. Savagely Cranberry burst the 
cover. Barely glancing at the contents, he snorted 
and sent the telegram to join its predecessor, and 
once more applied himself to spirit-rapping. Con¬ 
sumed with curiosity, but too much the little gen¬ 
tlemen to ask questions, the others could only 
stare at each other and at Cranberry in mute aston¬ 
ishment. After a long pause, during which he 
nearly pulled his moustache out by its roots, the 
obviously perturbed Cranberry turned to them 
and exclaimed: “Come on, let’s go to ‘The Bell.’ ” 

“But,” expostulated they, beset with a crapulous 
appetite, “we thought we were going to feed here?” 

“Oh no,” barked Cranberry; “damn this place. 
I hate it, and I can smell cabbage cooking. Let’s 
go along to ‘The Bell.’ ” And to “The Bell” they 
went. 

Barely had they entered the inn when, catching 
sight of his visitors, the proprietor greeted them: 
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Cranberry. The wife 
was just saying you would be like to come over on 
a fine day like this with that new yacht we heard 
you’d bought. And here’s a wire for you,” he con¬ 
tinued, handing over the harbinger we have all 
learnt to welcome or dread. Smothering an oath, 
Cranberry grabbed the offending envelope, and, 
37 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


without opening it, crammed it into his pocket. 
Overcome with curiosity, the others saw their 
chance. “Hadn’t you better open it?” they 
chorused. 

“Open it?” snorted Cranberry. “Yes, I will 
open it—come here.” Dragging them to a corner, 
he exhibited the telegrams, each a repetition of the 
other, and reading: “Have been watching you re¬ 
turn by train immediately.” 

“It’s that damned telescope,” bleated Cranberry. 
“I wish to Heaven I’d never bought it.” 

The silence which fell on the triumvirate was 
broken by Stout. “Let’s go to the ‘Sea View’ 
hotel; there may be another for you there.” 

“Oh, don’t try to be funny!” almost yelled the 
miserable Cranberry. “Can you see my wife wir¬ 
ing to a temperance hotel?” 

Solomon’s exhortation in his Book of Proverbs 
has, if not cured trouble, at least often made it 
temporarily less oppressive. So Cranberry, if 
capable of coherent thought, may have reflected, as 
we see him seated blinking in the sunshine outside 
the inn after lunch. But his recovering compla¬ 
cency received a shock when, on mentioning a 
likely train, “Not a yard do we go in any blighted 
train,” said Tommy Small. “Qui’ ri,” hiccuped 
38 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 

his friend. “You can get back to your lawful 
sp-sp-spouse b’ rail if like; we 9 re goin’ to sail the” 
(duly qualified) “boat home.” 

In vain the wretched Cranberry, assisted, albeit 
somewhat timorously, by the landlord, endeav¬ 
oured to dissuade them. The odds against him 
were too great. Reluctantly he tacked down to the 
little harbour with his guests. 

But unexpected opposition met them. Not a 
boatman could be found willing to ferry them off. 
As energy-economising and censorious a crew as 
could be found in the kingdom, their virtuous 
attitude was beautiful. “Ye ought tae be fair 
ashamed o’ yersel’,” they informed Cranberry, 
“wantin’ tae let thae laddies gang abaird in the 
condeeshin they’re in; aye, an’ you nae better. A 
fair disgrace! Tak’ them awa’ aff tae the station 
wi’ ye” (there are no secrets in a village post 
office), “an’ Wattie here’ll sail the bit boatie ower 
for ye the morn’s mom.” 

All concerned, however, had reckoned without 
the fact that the firm of Small & Stout, in any 
condition, were gentlemen of resource. On realis¬ 
ing the impasse that they had struck, they had 
already moved off on a tour of discovery, leaving 
the hapless Cranberry to sustain as best he might 
39 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


the home truths of the boatmen. Stumbling along 
the beach, they captured a confiding youth spearing 
flounders from the bow of a rowing-boat. Too 
young and inexperienced to be other than anxious 
to oblige real yachtsmen, he gladly consented to 
row them off, and, ignoring or not comprehending 
the frenzied howls from the pier to “Tak nae notice 
o’ thae folk,” he assisted the precious pair to em¬ 
bark, whilst the boatmen, overjoyed at the diver¬ 
sion—the tripper season had not started and their 
off-season pastime of mechanically abusing each 
other was a little threadbare for the want of fresh 
scandal—gathered in a chattering group at the 
pier-head, in the center of which stood the woeful 
Cranberry. 

With frantic haste the voyagers lost no time in 
getting up the anchor and hoisting the foresail. 
Slowly the little vessel began to gather way and 
the pair applied themselves to hoisting the main¬ 
sail. Lurching about the deck, Tommy Small 
clutched what he thought was the main halyard. 
Leaning well back to get his full weight on the rope, 
it ran through the sheave of the block and, not 
suddenly but gently, he passed over the side, yelling 
as he flopped: “I can’t swim.” 

Fortunately no one had attended to the tiller, so 
40 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


the Hilda , having come up into what wind there 
was, was practically stationary. None too gently 
Johnnie plunged at him with a boathook, and after 
a hectic struggle hauled him over the side. Paus¬ 
ing for a moment to recover their breath and senses, 
a hullabaloo from the harbour caused them to turn 
in that direction. A pleasing sight met their gaze. 
A flotilla of fully five rowing-boats was surging 
through the water after them, for all the world like 
an attack by torpedo craft in line abreast, and in the 
bow of the foremost, in prayerful attitude, was the 
now thoroughly distressed Cranberry, gesticulating 
and chanting, while the boatmen, having no pictur¬ 
esque boating songs with which to accompany him, 
filled in the blanks with fearsome imprecations. 

The whole thing was meat and drink to them. 
Not since the whale had come ashore on the West 
Beach, the previous November, had the natives had 
such a good day in the off-season. The day’s 
happenings would provide cud to chew for weeks, 
and they bent to their oars like heroes, foam 
splashing in all directions. 

“Quick,” yelped Johnnie, “the foresail’s draw¬ 
ing—get the jib on her: I’ll look after the stick.” 
Manfully Small hurled himself, all dripping, at the 
ropes. There was no mistake this time, and slowly 
41 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


the sails caught the breeze. But the pause had 
given the enemy time, so, making the halyard fast. 
Tommy lurched aft to help Johnnie to repel 
boarders. 

All round surged the little rowing-boats, while 
Johnnie with the boathook and Tommy with an 
ash sweep kept up a waving motion which checked 
the boatmen’s ardour. But the desperate Cran¬ 
berry was still to be reckoned with, and, urging 
his rowers to their utmost exertions, he got close 
enough to grab the end of the boathook. Wildly 
the attacking flotilla cheered. “Haud ontil it, sir 
—we hiv them noo, the young scoondrels!” 

But alas for human hopes. Poor Cranberry’s 
star was taking a day off. Accidentally or other¬ 
wise, Johnnie let go his end of the boathook and 
the miserable man took an involuntary plunge in 
the very moment of victory. 

Instantly the attack stopped and the boatmen 
crowded round to help the gasping, cursing, splut¬ 
tering owner. This .was good business. The Hilda 
might sail to blazes; here was a certainty of much 
immediate largess, with the prospect of more in 
days, even years, to come. “Aye, that wis jist 
aboot the time I saved ye frae droonin’, sir,” 
would be a sure two-shillingworth any day, and 
42 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


they nearly tore the half-drowned and wholly 
dazed wretch to pieces in their anxiety to achieve 
his capture. “Lea’ um alane, wull ’ee—ah’ve 
gotten um!” “Awa’ tae hell wi’ ye, alive gotten um! 
Tak yer haunds frae aff o’ his feet: ye’ll hae the 
man drooned!” In such fashion they howled at 
each other, whilst nearly rending him. 

Whatever Cranberry thought or felt in these 
moments, he certainly gave the toilers of the sea 
a benefit performance, and, after all, we must ac¬ 
cept some sacrifice for the greatest good of the 
greater number—and he certainly was in the 
minority. 

Clearing the cliff and catching the brisk east 
wind, the Hilda slipped along and gradually left 
behind her the rescuers fighting like vultures over 
their prey. Their outcry grew fainter as the couple 
made all square and edged across the Firth. “It’s 
a pity,” said Johnnie, “that you got yourself wet— 
fortunately, I bought a flask at ‘The Bell.’ ” “Oh, 
did you?” answered Tommy; “I bought one at 
Macbean’s.” 

Fain would I call a halt and simply state that 
they took their ship over. But truth must prevail. 
Presently one “empty” splashed over the side; soon 
another followed it, and down dived Johnnie to the 
43 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


little cabin. “Call me early, Tommy dear,” he 
murmured, as he disappeared; “when we’re half 
over, and I’ll take my trick.” “Don’t you worry,” 
replied the resourceful Tommy, “we can steer her 
with a fixed tiller.” And so saying he lashed the 
stick, and, snuggling down in the cockpit, calmly 
fell asleep. 

A bump and the outcry of many voices wakened 
Johnnie. Up he jumped and banged his head 
against the coach-roof, nearly knocking himself 
silly. Recovering, he joined his companion in the 
cockpit, and, looking up, found that they were off 
the harbour, plumb underneath the starboard spon- 
son of the good ship William Stirling. Hanging 
over the end of what he no doubt called the bridge 
was a person with an enormous red face trimmed 
with grey whiskers, and the voice of him filled the 
heavens. Never since the Emperor of Korea lost 
his bearings has there been heard such language 
as the bewhiskered one was using. Figure to your¬ 
self his feelings on seeing this apparently derelict 
small craft with flapping sails, holding up the 
traffic just outside the harbour. The two youths 
swayed in the cockpit while every passenger 
struggled for a good place at the rail. Enthusias- 
44 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


tically they answered the skipper’s abuse, while 
deck-hands with poles shoved the Hilda off, and 
no doubt they would have worthily held their own, 
had not a low fellow of what the Apostle calls the 
baser sort appeared from the stokehold with a 
bucket of ashes, not yet cold, which he promptly 
emptied over the pair. Signalling “Half-speed 
ahead” the ferry-boat moved into the harbour 
amidst the laughter and cheers of the passengers 
and the crowds at the pier-heads, leaving the ash- 
bestrewn Hilda swaying in her wash. 

There was still an air of wind, just sufficient to 
draw them in, and as they passed the admiring 
crowds on the breakwater, whom should they see, 
held, nay, positively clutched, by his, let us hope, 
adoring wife, but Cranberry. Swiftly the helm 
was put up. 

Right across to the far side of the harbour they 
edged, tied the boat to the nearest mooring post 
and scurried ashore. As they hustled up the quay¬ 
side, carefully avoiding the proximity of their 
friend the ferry-boat skipper, they saw across the 
harbour, obviously coming round to meet them, two 
quickly moving figures. They broke into a run. 

The orthodox finish to this ower true tale would 
be that an advertisement appeared in the columns 
45 


HOW SHE CAME HOME 


of The Yachting Monthly , offering a twenty-one 
foot boat for sale, “no reasonable offer refused.” 

It was not so. Cranberry still sails the Hilda , 
but mostly inside the harbour, and his sole com¬ 
panion is and for ever shall be his wife. Gone 
is his smart “yachting suit.” He wears a plain 
blue reefer, and the only sign of a badge is an in¬ 
conspicuous piece of blue ribbon in the left lapel. 

An old-clothes dealer gave a tramp two shillings 
for an almost unrecognizable telescope and stand 
—he remarked that the one unbroken lens might 
be worth it. 


46 


JE M’EN FICHE 









JE M’EN FICHE 


To disemfjarrass oneself of immediate responsibilities — that, 
my friend, is the true philosophy of life. 


—Bonjeax 



IHAT our block of flats had worse luck 


than others with these war-time page-boys 


JL is hardly likely, and one became so accus¬ 
tomed to a fresh face above the uniform which 
seldom came anywhere near to fitting, covering as 
it did a strange hack almost once a week, that I 
had not noticed the new-comer. On my entering 
the lift he broke forth: “Momin’ sir. No. 28 ’s 
lost their black Persian. Five shillin’s all they’re 
offerin’. They won’t never get it back for that, you 
know: ten bob’s more like it,” he added, yawning 
undisguisedly. 

I examined the imp. Very small, pale, with 
faded hair and colourless yet sharp eyes, he might 
have been anything from eight to sixteen, and he 
looked out on the world from below a peaked and 
braided cap many sizes too large for him, but 
which his bat-like ears mercifully held up, with 


49 


JE M’EN FICHE 


that expression of wistful virtuousness sometimes 
seen in the faces of slum-scouring curates. 

I felt sorry for the sad-looking urchin, and in 
answer to my questions he stated that his name was 
’Orace, and that he did not know how long he might 
remain. “Depends on the tips,” he said, with 
pleasing frankness. “The money I’m gettin’ ain’t 
no catch.” 

Although I certainly did not invite him to do so, 
he strolled with me to the entrance door in Knights- 
bridge, where our Departmental car waited. The 
driver had the bonnet up and was fossicking in the 
engine. This appeared vastly to intrigue ’Orace, 
for he at once strolled round to the front of the car 
and planted himself there to watch operations. 
The lift bell rang. It continued to ring steadily, 
then angrily in jerks. I drew the attention of 
’Orace to the fact. Without deigning to even 
glance at me, he said, “Yessir,” and continued to 
gaze at the car-driver and the engine. I pointed 
out, perhaps a little sharply, that he had better 
move as some person was probably wishful to use 
the lift, whereat he looked at me reproachfully 
and strolled off, walking sideways like a crab, still 
gazing at the car. The lift bell ceased its persis¬ 
tent clamour, so I forgot about him while we tink- 
50 


JE M’EN FICHE 


ered at the engine. Having got it to start, I was 
just entering when I heard an explosion behind 
me and turned to find ’Orace, still in the entrance, 
being assailed by an irate dowager of exceeding 
fatness, carrying a dog. I wondered how she had 
got down the narrow stair. “You wicked, wicked 
boy,” she panted. “How dare you stand here and 
leave the lift untended? I have had to walk the 
whole way down.” ’Orace considered her sym¬ 
pathetically. “I’m very sorry, madam, but I ’ad 
to ’elp this gentleman with ’is car,” and madam 
turned on me! Fortunately the car moved off. 
Oddly enough, it was with a car that ’Orace got in 
his first piece of really fine work, but that comes 
later. 

When I returned that evening Hollis, the care¬ 
taker, was in charge of the lift, and Hollis was un¬ 
happy, which grieved me, for he and I are great 
friends, a friendship that dates from Bletsoe’s visit. 
Previously Hollis, whose fine manners and aristo¬ 
cratic appearance would have brought joy to 
Ouida’s heart, had merely accepted me along with 
the other tenants, although the arrival of a case 
of noble proportions containing whisky at a time 
of painful scarcity seemed to produce a certain 
increased deference, but it was when Bletsoe spent 
51 


JE M’EN FICHE 


a night at my flat that I really rose in his estima¬ 
tion. Now Bletsoe is a brave man and saved my 
life, which is a personal matter and entirely unim¬ 
portant except to myself and one or two other 
people, but Bletsoe rode a winner of the Grand 
National, which is a national matter and of exces¬ 
sive importance. That he, Hollis, should have 
carried in his lift and spoken to a man who had 
ridden the winner of that event, and a race, too, 
that he had seen him win, raised the old fellow 
to the seventh heaven, and then I understood the 
litter of “early specials” and suchlike that I had 
occasionally noticed in his little office. Hollis had 
the national complaint very badly. I was then in¬ 
formed that he had not missed a Derby since Bend 
Or’s and had seen most of the other big races sev¬ 
eral times since the early eighties, and I found 
myself promoted to be his turf confidant and tip- 
ster-in-chief. It was risky work, for I even men¬ 
tioned a horse’s name he ran out to have “ ’arf-a- 
dollar up-an’-down” on it. Fortunately (although, 
to press a piece of entirely unasked-for information 
on the reader, I never bet promiscuously myself, 
having had a look inside as it were) by the wildest 
chance I occasionally gave him successful tips 
about animals I would never have dared back my- 
52 


JE M’EN FICHE 


self. So Hollis and I were friends and his family 
history was laid before me. Chiefly he respected 
a well-doing brother who at one time 66 ’Ad bin 
clerkin’ for one of the biggest bookmakers in Lon¬ 
don, sir, before them starting price shops spoilt 
the business. Wye, given the customers, any 
Board-school child could make an S. P. book these 
days.” The said brother had for some years “kep’ 
a public out Enfield way,” and apparently was on 
the point of retiring, a credit to the whole fam¬ 
ily. But we are digressing from ’Orace. “Did you 
’appen to notice that new boy as we’ve got, sir?” 
Hollis began, and I assured him that I certainly 
had. “Wot d’ you think ’e done? No. 28 lost their 
black Persian kitten and offered a reward of five 
shillings, an’ this young limb finds it an’ locks it 
away downstairs till they would offer more. ’E’s 
bin gettin’ ’imself and me into trouble all day, an’ 
wot can I do? Wye, if you as much as speak 
sharp to ’em, let alone cuff their ’eads, they’re fit 
to bring in a policeman on you. Dunno wot things 
is cornin’ to along o’ this war an’ a Government 
such as we ’ave, always playin’ down to Labour.” 
Hollis, I would mention, was keenly interested in 
politics and as stout a reactionary as any Tory in 
the Lords, his bete noire being a person he called 
53 


JE M’EN FICHE 


“Lyin’ George,” on whom he impartially laid the 
blame for everything. “Clearly the city is the 
place for that boy,” I remarked, “and that reminds 
me: I forgot to tell him myself—you might tell 
him to watch for my car, and come up and let me 
know when it arrives in the morning, as the others 
used to do,” for amongst our various “limbs” the 
unvarying long suit was forgetfulness. Earlier 
that evening Fergusson had called, and finding 
’Orace, asked if I were in, adding that he had for¬ 
gotten my number, a not infrequent occurrence, 
but that he, ’Orace, doubtless knew it. Like a 
flash, ’Orace, assuring him that I was at home, gave 
a number, and took him up. Not only was the 
number wrong, but the floor appeared to be wrong. 
Now these mansions, forming a triangle, were en¬ 
dowed with no less than three entrances, while the 
decorative scheme was unrelieved and the doors 
as alike as peas in a pod, so Fergusson mounted 
stairs and descended them, passed through endless 
swing doors, diffidently rang a bell here and there, 
and finally, after feeling he would never get out, 
he reached the street entrance and the lift. An 
elderly man was in attendance, but Fergusson 
desired ’Orace. “Has the boy gone off?” he asked. 
“Gone off wot, sir? There ain’t bin no boy ’ere, 
54 


JE M’EN FICHE 


not since ten o’clock, wen I come on agin afte’ me 
brekfis’, sir.” And then the explorer discovered 
that he had made a tour of the building and was 
now in Brompton Road. Then he remembered the 
number—or thought he had. He was always a 
believer in inspirations, so after a precautionary 
geographical survey with the old fellow he once 
more mounted and tried the bell at the fresh num¬ 
ber. Receiving no answer to his ringing, he re¬ 
commenced his perambulations, then almost in a 
sudden access of apprehension he wandered down 
the first stairs he came to and—found himself 
again in the Brompton Road. Nearly beginning 
to doubt his own sanity, but determined to inter¬ 
view ’Orace once more before he threw up the 
sponge, he walked round outside the building and, 
discovering ’Orace placidly surveying the traffic 
from his entrance, he accused him, not in bitterness 
but really from curiosity, of having misled him. 
“Yessir,” answered ’Orace, shifting his feet and 
taking his hands from his pockets as if prepara¬ 
tory to flight. “Well, so far as I can discover, he 
is not in,” Fergusson informed him. “No, sir,” 
’Orace agreed quite calmly. “This is clearly a 
quaint bird,” thought Fergusson, who, fortunately 
for ’Orace, is generally more apt to be amused than 
55 


JE M’EN FICHE 


irritated by untoward happenings, so he asked: 
“Do you know when he will be in?” “ ’Bout an 
’arf-’our or so, sir,” came the pat reply. “How do 
you knew?” persisted Fergusson. “Dunno, sir,” 
said ’Orace. “Well, I’ll come back in half-an-hour 
and chance it—tell him that if he comes in.” 
“Yessir.” “Do you know my name?” “Yessir.” 
“What is it?” “Dunno, sir.” Baffled, Fergusson 
gave it up and faded away. 

It was nine o’clock next morning when ’Orace 
presented himself at my door with the information 
that the car had arrived. Now it was not my habit 
to leave before half-past. Government Depart¬ 
ments, as the war has demonstrated to everyone, do 
not take down the shutters before ten o’clock, unless 
in some “Control,” where various interested 
“shirkers” or “indispensables” found it profitable 
to arrive earlier and remain later than their 
fellows. 

I am afraid I said “Bother the woman,” or 
words to that effect. “It’s a man drivin’ this mom- 
in’, sir,” said ’Orace, peering past me into the flat, 
and light dawned. My regular driver would be 
taking a day off, and no doubt some ignorant or¬ 
derly . . . “Tell him not to wait. I’ll go by bus,” 
and I retired for half-an-hour to see what the news¬ 
papers had to say in the interests of Hollis. 

56 


JE M’EN FICHE 


At half-past nine I proceeded to the lift and rang 
and continued to ring, but no sign of movement. 
After the previous day’s experience I was prepared 
for anything, so I accepted the situation as philo¬ 
sophically as I could, and hirpled down the stairs. 
As I neared the foot I heard voices, one raised in 
an angry falsetto, the other I recognised as the 
plaintive bleat of ’Orace. How long the duet had 
been going on I could not guess, but both sides were 
well under way. 

“Did the driver say where he was going?” 
shrilled Falsetto. 

“Yessir,” from ’Orace. 

“Well? Well? Where was it?” 

“I dunno,” said ’Orace meekly. 

“You—you-” and Falsetto’s voice died 

away in an incoherent jabble of swear words. 
Fearing homicide, I emerged into the passage to 
find a tall, lean, frock-coated person with the ortho¬ 
dox silk hat, eye-glasses, whiskers and black bag 
of a typical medical man stooping over ’Orace, who 
cringed against the wall. From the fragment I 
had heard the silk-hatted one had my sympathy. 

Then ’Orace swept me into it. “There ’e is, sir, 
that’s the gentleman,” and he pointed to me. 
Frockcoat almost ran at me and squealed: “Con¬ 
found you, sir! What the devil do you mean by 
57 



JE M’EN FICHE 


interfering with my car? I am due at a consulta¬ 
tion in five minutes and now I’m told that you have 

had the damned impertinence-” I had let him 

run on as I was amused at his voice—it interested 
me—but I thought it time to pull him up, so as 
mildly as any lamb, but, I hope, firmly, I said, 

“Really, sir, I can stand a good deal, but-” and 

then my blood did its best to go through the per¬ 
formance known as freezing, for just at that mo¬ 
ment my own particular car, with our own particu¬ 
lar driver, drew up at the entrance and stood there 
purring. The full horror of the situation dawned 
on me and I looked at ’Orace. He was standing 
there nonchalantly gazing at us with his lack-lustre 
but intelligent eyes. He looked quite sad—per¬ 
haps he was disappointed that we had not yet come 
to blows. “Look here, sir,” I began, with an air 
of heartiness I was far from feeling, “I can ex¬ 
plain-” “I wish no explanation,” Frockcoat 

cut in. “I want my car!” he shouted at me. 
“Damn it, I never heard anything like it in all my 
life.” By this time we had reached the street, ac¬ 
companied, of course, by ’Orace—my driver after¬ 
wards assured me that he winked to her, but she 
was a saucy minx, gifted with an imagination. 
Possibly he still had hopes of witnessing an assault. 

58 





JE M’EN FICHE 


Clearly it was no use talking to him and he was 
too small to kick, so I again tried to soothe Frock- 
coat. “My dear sir, I know nothing about your 
car, but here is my car, and I will gladly drop 
you anywhere you wish.” “I don’t want to go in 
your car,” he cried, spluttering angrily, “I want 
my own. I’ve a good mind to call a policeman.” 

The case was hopeless, and as passers-by were 
beginning to take notice, I stepped into the car. 
“Get me a taxi, boy!” he snapped to ’Orace, and 
just as we moved off ’Orace’s brilliant impromptu 
reached me, “Not allowed to leave the lift, sir,” 
and for once in a way his small voice seemed al¬ 
most cheerful. 

But it was the telephone that really afforded 
’Orace the widest scope. Half the private tele¬ 
phones in the building were out of order and with¬ 
out possibility of being put right while the war 
raged, or dragged, according to your point of view, 
so that the hall telephone was seldom idle. Sadly 
and indifferently ’Orace would say people were in 
or out according as it suited him, and if he did 
decide to say “in” he merely set the lift in motion 
—if he could find no one in the entrance hall— 
and, capturing the first person he saw, took them 
to the telephone, then strolled to the door to watch 
59 


JE M’EN FICHE 


the traffic. If he saw no one about he rang the 
handiest bell, and as he came on duty between nine 
and ten, the while Hollis breakfasted, he offered 
up some interesting spectacles of half-awake, 
scantily clad ladies, hastily tucked into fur coats 
and, on the return journey, doubtless after hav¬ 
ing had what are usually referred to as “words” 
with some stranger at the other end of the wire, elo¬ 
quent with rage. The telephone occupied most of 
his third day: he only remained with us for one 
more and very little of it, but while it lasted he 
rose to great heights. It began with two ladies. 
On entering the lift one sniffed and remarked: 
“Funny smell—rather like burning.” “Hope the 
building’s not on fire,” said her companion, with 
a giggle. As they got out at the ground floor two 
stout, fussy little people, man and wife, entered. 
“Ridiculously ventilated these mansions are; smell 
of cooking’s disgraceful,” said the man. “ ’Tain’t 
cooking, sir. Building’s on fire,” said ’Orace in 
his sorrowful tones. “Wha-a-at!” screamed the 
pair. “Take us down at once!” and they babbled 
at each other. “Has the fire brigade been sum¬ 
moned?” asked the lady, as they jostled out of the 
lift. “Not yet, madam,” answered ’Orace mourn¬ 
fully. “Merciful heavens!” gasped the excited 
60 


JE M’EN FICHE 


dame. “James! James! at once!” and the obedient 
James bustled to the telephone. 

In sailed a lady’s-maid with three pekinese that 
she had been airing across in the Park. On hear¬ 
ing what the worthy James was bawling, she uttered 
a long-drawn “Oh!” and picking up her charges 
rushed into the lift, calling out: “Quick! Quick! I 
must fetch my lady.” As they moved heavenward, 
the stout female raised a wail: “Don’t go away! 
Don’t leave us!” But ’Orace had started and 
heeded not. Into the building came a youngish 
man with brisk step. Hearing the howls, and hav¬ 
ing been nicely brought up, “What is the matter, 
madam?” he asked politely, at the same time rais¬ 
ing his hat, all as laid down in Tips for Toffs, now 
in its eleventh edition. “The building’s on fire, 
and that little imp there won’t come back for us,” 
she blubbered, and reinforced by James! James! 
they fiercely punched the bell and gazed anxiously 
up the well of the lift, down which portents of the 
coming storm were floating. 

“On fire!” yelled the polite young man, and 
throwing deportment to the winds he dashed up¬ 
stairs four steps at a time. In his first jump he 
barged into an immaculate person stepping se¬ 
dately down, having apparently been unsuccessful 
61 


JE M’EN FICHE 


in getting hold of ’Orace. “Where on earth are 
you coming to?” he asked angrily, as he straight¬ 
ened up from retrieving his bowler and started 
flicking it with a startling silk handkerchief. 
-“Coming to!” shouted the other as he started off 
again, “don’t you know the building’s on fire?” and 
disappeared. At that moment ’Orace descended 
and opening his gate the fat pair bundled in, yel¬ 
ling at him. ’Orace paid no attention, for the gen¬ 
tleman of the gaudy handkerchief was interro¬ 
gating him. As you may have observed, anything 
other than his legitimate occupation always at¬ 
tracted ’Orace. “It surely must be in the east 
wing,” said he. “Yessir,” promptly answered 
’Orace. “Oh, well, in that case,” said the ques¬ 
tioner, “they’ll easily check it before it gets this 
length,” and strolled jauntily out into Knights- 
bridge, while ’Orace, failing to find any other dis¬ 
tractions, yielded to the pressure of threats and 
started the lift. 

As the terrified babbling pair rose skywards, 
signs were not wanting that the youth who had 
sprinted up had done his gallant best to warn the 
inhabitants, and, mingled with the yapping of 
myriads of small dogs, persistent yells to stop 
greeted the trio as they mounted past the different 
floors, but ’Orace held steadily on to the fifth. 

62 


JE M’EN FICHE 


Releasing his fares, James! James! threatening 
him with death if he dared to go away before they 
returned, the pair scampered off. They had no 
sooner disappeared than a whimpering fat lady 
turned up. ’Orace promptly took her in and started 
downwards. Her peroxide transformation showed 
signs of hasty adjustment, her amazingly high- 
heeled boots were unbuttoned, and in the folds of 
her fur coat she clutched a wheezing pug and a dis¬ 
patch-case, while she alternately whimpered and 
shivered. Signs, too, were not wanting that she was 
not many minutes out of bed. As ’Grace slammed 
the gate, a despairing shout calling on him to stop 
echoed along the passage, but he passed away. 
Etage No. 4 was dull, but at floor No. 3 pandemo¬ 
nium reigned. The landing was like the early 
hours of a bargain sale with frantic females, all in 
fur coats, and all carrying yelping, snuffling dogs, 
who jostled at the gate or strove to pass through 
the throng, a performance which was further com¬ 
plicated by two little old men who had succeeded 
in overturning a bureau across the head of the 
stairs and were, despite agonised entreaties, accom¬ 
panied by thumps from vigorous feminine knees, 
crawling about amongst the dogs and ladies’ feet, 
endeavouring to retrieve stacks of papers which 
had been decanted from unlocked drawers. The 
63 


JE M’EN FICHE 


lift remained here for some time while ’Orace, car¬ 
ried into the back of the car and nearly crushed 
out of existence by the remnant-sale rush, was re¬ 
stored to his place at the lever. Placidly he 
straightened his cap while the passengers elbowed 
and squabbled amongst the dogs. 

With difficulty I made my way downstairs while 
the building hummed like an overturned bee-hive. 
The air was filled with the voices of small dogs and 
women while the appearance of the floors recalled 
the palmy days of the Caledonian Market. Man¬ 
fully I struggled on through ladies with dogs 
climbing up, and dogs clasped by ladies barging 
down, and finally, coming in view of the entrance 
hall, I found it blocked with a surging, shouting 
crowd of tenants with their pet dogs, and in the 
midst of them I noticed the venerable head and tall 
figure of Hollis with two policemen. I fought as 
politely as the circumstances would allow through 
the throng and the crowd outside, and going along 
Knightsbridge, I sank down in the lounge of an 
adjacent hotel and laughed till I wept. Fortu¬ 
nately I am known there so I was not ejected. 

It was Monday and I had an appointment with 
a friend to look over some horses at Tattersalls, so 
after dropping in my letters at the adjacent post 
64 


JE M’EN FICHE 


office, I turned into the lane passing along the west 
side of our block. As I came out into the little 
backwater, something moving on the left caught 
my eye as it darted out into the street from our 
Brompton Road door. It was 'Orace, jacketless 
and capless, fleeing like an antelope before Hollis. 
Such a student of racing form as he was might 
have known that he could not give the weight away, 
and age soon told its tale. He pulled up and I 
went towards him. “How’s the fire going?” I 
asked. “My Gord, sir,” was all he could say, “my 
Gord! The young imp of hell!” and in his anguish 
he succeeded in achieving the aspirate. I walked 
slowly back to the doors with him. Apparently the 
excitement was all at the other side as the entrance 
was quite empty except for one lady. She, how¬ 
ever, sustained the best traditions of the mansions 
by wearing a fur coat and carrying two pekinese. 
As Hollis mechanically opened the swing door for 
her, a faint noise resembling the combination of a 
Cup final and a dog show came through. A furi¬ 
ous outburst of police whistles brought Hollis out 
to the street again. We paused and gazed. At the 
head of Sloane Street the traffic was being hur¬ 
riedly checked. Then came the climax. Round 
the corner swung a fire engine and flew past Lord 
65 


JE M’EN FICHE 


Strathnairn’s statue on two wheels: another fol¬ 
lowed and then an auxiliary with a squad of hel- 
meted men took the turning in brave style—clearly 
James! James! had done his work well, and I won¬ 
dered how he and his good lady were faring. 

Hollis threw up his hands and with bowed head 
disappeared slowly inside. I turned back to Tat- 
tersalls, and as I did so a tiny figure at their gate, 
seeing me coming towards him, also turned and 
sped into Brompton Road. 

It might have been three weeks later when I 
strolled past Harrods. Something familiar in a 
small uniformed figure wielding a taxi flag struck 
me. Yes, it undoubtedly was ’Orace. He too re¬ 
cognised me and twisted his sad visage into a smile, 
apprehensive and ingratiating. At that moment 
the swing doors opened behind him and a majestic 
Kensington mamma with a delightful Kensington 
daughter emerged. Glancing at them, ’Orace 
stepped to the kerb, and stopped a west-going taxi 
in his old familiar dead-alive manner. The driver 
pulled in and ’Orace opened the door. “Gracious, 
hoy!” said mamma, 66 we didn’t order a taxi, did 
we, Mabel?” “No, mummy,” cooed Mabel. 

“Ladies don’t want a taxi,” said ’Orace non- 
66 


JE M’EN FICHE 


chalantly as he slammed the door, but Nemesis was 
at hand. Out of the near side of the vehicle the 
top half of a frowsy, alcoholic driver appeared. 
Grabbing the unsuspecting ’Orace with one fist, 
with the other he seized the flag-stick. “ ’Ere, wot 
the ’ell’s this, yer young swine!” he snarled. 
“Secon’ time this week ye’ve come this gime on 
me.” Still holding ’Orace, he clambered out, ut¬ 
tering language which sent mummy and Mabel 
flying. I passed on, and as I went a sound as of 
the beating of many carpets followed me. ’Orace 
was meeting his Waterloo. 


67 



THE CORONER’S TALE 



THE CORONER’S TALE 


Then shall the slayer return and come unto his own city; and 
unto his own house, unto the city from whence he fled. 


—Joshua 



HE rumour of an Armistice in the Great 


War had become a fact. Peace had broken 


JL out almost as unexpectedly as war and for 
the better part of the week London lost its head, 
while the Men Who Won The War showed gracious 
tolerance towards the Press photographers. 

But not everywhere was the news welcome. War 
had become the national industry and the gangs of 
low-caste Caledonians and Cymrian sweepings that 
had swarmed to join the elite of Clapham in the 
mushroom Departments were righteously indig¬ 
nant at the interruption. Never had there been 
such a splendid war. True, men and even boys 
were suffering and dying somewhere for some fool¬ 
ish ideal, but unless they were supported from 
behind ... It was a comforting thought. Timor¬ 
ously they had arrived in the Metropolis with their 
umbrellas, noses twitching like rats’ for any scent 


71 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


of danger, but emboldened and flourishing under 
the lead of Cassius and Barabbas, the idea of hav¬ 
ing to return to their former ill-paid obscurity just 
when they were solving the mysteries of evening 
kit, the ordering of dinner in “restrongs” and 
learning not to call it a serviette, was a painful 
thought, and they fought as only such cattle can to 
screw their jobs down into permanencies or to hold 
them till at least they could cadge the label of their 
tribe. 

With a helpful arm from Meredith we took our 
lives in our hands and, as fast as two crocks might, 
made a dash for an island in the maelstrom that 
Kingsway becomes on a November night. There 
our car had reappeared that day for the first time 
since having been swiftly cached early on Armis¬ 
tice morning. It was a precious car, a real English 
bus with power and comfort. Previously we had 
been running our under-staffed show with a 
wretched Ford which would never start the day’s 
work until some of “Uncle Sam’s Boys,” who, for¬ 
tunately for our lady drivers, abounded in Kings¬ 
way, had been delighted to display strength and 
skill with the handle. Having been started, the rat¬ 
tletrap then selected the busiest spots in London, 
the Strand for choice, to lower its raucous voice to 
72 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


a hiccup and lie down. Mercifully, evil men stole 
it one day from our very door and probably never 
in the history of crime have thieves been so fer¬ 
vently blessed. When we reached the cherished 
vehicle we saw our driver, who was as capable as 
she was comely, lightly gripping by one arm the 
smallest, neatest and most delightful Early Vic¬ 
torian old gentleman that ever stepped out of a 
daguerreotype. 

As we loomed up out of the mirk he changed a 
leather bag he carried from his right hand to what 
he thought was his left, although it was our driver 
who caught it, and raised his old-fashioned silk hat 
as he spoke. “Gentlemen, I—I must apologise. I 
—I do not know—I—I find this place so bewilder¬ 
ing and really-” 

“He seems lost and thought I was a taxi,” our 
driver broke in as if he had not been there, “and 
wanted to hire me.” “My dear young lady,” said 
the old gentleman, “I do most sincerely apologise 
to you and to the officers for my unwarrantable 
error, and if any of you would only be kind enough 

to tell me where- Ah! there is one,” and he 

broke away to run with funny little steps at a pass¬ 
ing taxicab, the driver of which, of course, took not 
the slightest notice. Dropping his bag, after him 
73 



THE CORONER’S TALE 


sped our driver, who while'talking to us had eased 
her hold on his arm. Retrieving him from under¬ 
neath the bonnet of a barging bus and straighten¬ 
ing his hat, she brought him back like a nurse with 
a frightened child. “Where do you want to go 
to?” said Meredith and I simultaneously, thinking 
along the same lines. “I—I wish to make a call 
in Queen Anne Street; you may perhaps know Doc¬ 
tor Ewart there,” and the dear old soul spoke as if 
we were in a small provincial town. “I got into 
St. Pancras’ Station about two o’clock”—it was 
then six—“and I am very much afraid that I have 
got somewhat out of my way; indeed, I frankly do 
not know my whereabouts in the least. You see, I 
have not been in London for many years and, dear 
me, how everything has changed, and I have be¬ 
sides received a terrible shock to-day, a terrible 
shock indeed.” 

Without speaking, Meredith took his bag and 
opened the car door, and as I assisted the delight¬ 
ful old gentleman to enter, which he did unques- 
tioningly, our driver, grasping the intention, bent 
to the crank. She was such a treasure, and that is 
a statement made with conviction—we had had 
others. Just consider for a moment the plight of a 
little, frail old gentleman (I never discovered his 
74 


THE CORONER’S TALE 

age, but he looked eighty at least) wandering about 
in the crowded rabble of the streets of London in 
Armistice week for nearly four hours, carrying a 
bag, and unable to get taxi. Tube, bus or his bear¬ 
ings. Assuring him as he chirped his heartfelt 
thanks, for when we settled him between us he be¬ 
came quite talkative under the reaction of being 
rescued, that it was really on our way, he explained 
that he was only making a short call at Queen Anne 
Street in order to hand over some papers, and then 
he would require to go on to Golder’s Green to pay 
another visit. 

“But how do you propose to reach Golder’s 
Green?” asked the practical Meredith. “Has your 
friend, this doctor man, got a car?” “Oh dear me, 
no! He is extremely clever, but quite poor,” the 
old gentleman replied, almost as if he had ad¬ 
vanced a qualification of distinction, as indeed it 
was fast becoming. Again simultaneously, in our 
anxiety to salve the simple creature, we asked him 
how he intended or hoped to reach there. “Oh, I— 
surely I shall be able to get some sort of convey¬ 
ance as the rush of the day’s work draws to a 
close?” “My dear sir,” we assured him, “the rush 
is only beginning. Every taxi on the streets to¬ 
night will have a horde of hooligans and profiteers 
75 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


after it. But supposing you do manage to reach 
Golder’s Green, what then? Are you going to 
spend the night there?” “Oh dear me, no,” he 
answered; “I shall only be there a few moments, 
just as at Queen Anne Street, and then I shall go 
to a hotel.” 

It was too serious to be comical, and as Meredith 
had but recently been married and had gone to 
dwell in some remote suburb, while I lived in 
virtuous grass-widowerhood in Knightsbridge, it 
was clearly my job, so nodding assent to his ques¬ 
tioning glance across the prehistoric topper nest¬ 
ling between us, I said to the owner of it: “Now, 
sir, you say that you have not been here for many 
years, so let me tell you at once that in London 
to-night you will get neither taxi, dinner nor bed. 
What I propose is this: We shall wait for you at 
Queen Anne Street and then take you on to Gol¬ 
der’s Green; it is on the way to the garage so don’t 
let that worry you.” It was not, strictly speaking, 
unless any circuitous route is on the way, and I 
doubt in any case if he knew what a garage was, 
but let us hope the Recording Angel will let that 
one pass, and sixpenceworth of Government petrol 
in a humane cause did not seem much when we 
were being swindled out of millions daily. “After 
76 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


that,” I continued, “the car will drop me at my 
place, where I can make you comfortable for jhe 
night, and we can be sure of some sort of dinner 
at the club.” Hardly comprehending, he grate¬ 
fully acquiesced, like the little child that toddles 
along with its hand confidently in the grasp of a 
self-conscious policeman. I leaned forward and 
explained in a few words to our driver, who, bless 
her, cheerfully offered to take our foundling any¬ 
where. 

Our troubles began at Queen Anne Street, where 
our guest found that he had forgotten the number, 
but vowed that he could remember the house, and 
it was only after he had spotted several as being 
his doctor’s that a shout from Meredith, who had 
been drawing one side looking for brass plates 
while the car cruised up the other, announced our 
first find. True to his statement, he did not keep 
us waiting long, and tucking him in again, we 
headed for the classic shades of Golder’s Green. 
Our Queen Anne Street experience started us early 
inquiring as to what our aged waif knew of the 
whereabouts of his second house of call. “Frank¬ 
ly,” he said, “after Queen Anne Street I do not 
feel the same confidence. London seems to have in 
every way changed so, but I fancy I can direct 
77 


THE CORONER’S TALE 

you, and after all I have the name; he also is a doc¬ 
tor, so is sure to be well known in the district.” 
His infantile trustfulness was quite touching. 
“There!” he suddenly exclaimed, as after much 
wandering we passed the end of a wide lane of 
houses, “I feel sure it lies up there.” Swinging 
round, we passed up the road, but he could identify 
nothing. After the garish racket of London the 
place seemed like a city of the dead. Meredith 
the married was getting a little peevish in his 
questions, so, noticing a solitary special constable, 
I stopped the car and stepped out. With a strong 
Morayshire accent he announced that he not only 
knew the doctor we sought, but as the air raids were 
over, and as he was feeling thoroughly bored, he 
would gladly guide us there. We took him in, and 
having seen our wanderer pay his second call we 
were soon dropped at Knightsbridge, and Meredith 
with the driver passed on into the night and out of 
the story. 

Only waiting long enough to leave his bag and 
give him the stimulant he so badly needed, I soon 
had the old curiosity settled to food and drink at 
the club. He was very silent during the meal, nor 
did I disturb him, but after his first glass of port 
he revived and began to talk. You must imagine 
78 


THE CORONER’S TALE 

his quaint, fastidious, deliberate diction. “Sir,” 
he began, “you have indeed been my Good Samari¬ 
tan, and I offer you my heartfelt thanks. I see now 
that I took much for granted in venturing to Lon¬ 
don alone at such a time. Besides the fatigue of 
the day, which I only realised when I reached your 
hospitable abode, I have, as I think I remember 
telling you and your kind friend, suffered a very 
great shock to-day. I am old, you see, and my 
nerves naturally are a little frayed, and for a time 
it nearly deprived me of my senses. Indeed, if it 
will not unduly strain your patience, I feel im¬ 
pelled to tell you of it. Perhaps you know what 
it means to feel that you must unbosom yourself 
and possibly you do not know the Dale country? 
No? Well, so much the safer.” 

And this is the Coroner’s tale: 

“I am a Coroner in a district there. No, we do 
not pronounce it ‘Crowner,’ that is a Cockney 
habit,” he replied to my query. “In that country 
we live scattered about in wide, almost uninhabited 
stretches of hill and dale, broken only here and 
there with the sheep farmers’ slaty dykes. Towns 
and villages are few, and neighbours far apart in 
that bleak country, and while some parts are truly 
beautiful and even attract occasional tourists, with 
79 


THE CORONER’S TALE 

its rains and keen winds it is not a region a stranger 
would deliberately choose to settle in, and with 
the young ones spreading their wings, population 
seems to slip back. Yet it has a strange fascina¬ 
tion for those bom there. In a modest fashion I 
have travelled and seen men and cities. I studied 
at Oxford and Heidelberg and Rome, yet I re¬ 
turned to settle in practice amongst my native hills 
and dales with great happiness, and I rejoice to 
think that, thanks to your goodness, sir,” and he 
bowed with an old-fashioned courtesy, “I shall once 
again sleep there to-morrow night. Some years 
ago, perhaps five and twenty, a woman, one of 
the daughters of a long-deceased innkeeper in our 
little town, returned from abroad and took up her 
abode amongst us, bringing with her a boy, the son 
of a recently dead married sister, with whom it 
appears she had resided in Canada for many years. 
As she herself was unmarried, gossip, ever mali¬ 
cious, spread uncharitable reports. Has, I wonder, 
our much-praised civilisation and progress, with 
its worship of what people call success, improved 
us? I greatly fear not. My race is nearly run 
and sometimes I am compelled to think that I shall 
leave a much worse world than it was when I en¬ 
tered it. Yet one hopes one may be wrong, surely, 
80 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


surely-” And he shook his head sadly and 

gazed abstractedly across the room for a moment, 
then resumed: 

“Undisturbed, although she could not be in 
ignorance of it, she devoted herself to the boy. 
Tall and strong and handsome he grew. Strangely 
taciturn, and mixing little with the other lads, he 
had one passion, horses. I am myself no horse¬ 
man, although in my younger days I enjoyed mak¬ 
ing my rounds on a cob, but to me a good man on 
a good horse has always seemed a beautiful thing. 
There was nothing on four legs that he could not 
master, and people came to bring unbroken colts 
from long distances for him to handle, and I never 
knew him to fail. As his aunt had apprenticed 
him to a local blacksmith and wheelwright—you 
know, I imagine the kind of country artisan that 
I mean—the youth had his hands full, which is a 
great blessing for the young. He was also devoted 
to boxing, and with his animal-like quickness and 
extraordinary strength he greatly excelled, and 
would travel miles to have a mill with one of the 
professors, as they called themselves, who went 
about in the travelling shows which at that time 
were still common, quartering the country-side with 
their vans. I, of course, have no knowledge, but I 
81 



THE CORONER’S TALE 


used to hear people who knew say that had he 
gone to one of the great cities he would have won 
fame, but though several tried to persuade him, he 
preferred his own life. Wayward and headstrong, 
he would brook no control, and one day he quar¬ 
relled and actually came to blows with his master, 
the smith. Although he thrashed the older man, it 
meant that his steady occupation ceased, but it 
happened that a small inn just outside the town 
fell vacant, and with his savings and his aunt’s 
help he was able to establish himself there, she 
keeping house for him. With that and his skill 
at horse-breaking and shoeing, for he was a most 
industrious fellow, he prospered. It pleased me, 
for I—I was greatly interested in him, and re¬ 
joiced to see such a headstrong youth settling 
down. It was about this time that he met his wife. 
She was the daughter of a small sheep farmer some 
distance away, which may have accounted for their 
never meeting till one day, having ridden over a 
horse he had been breaking for her father, he saw 
her, fell violently in love with her in his head¬ 
strong fashion, and they were married almost im¬ 
mediately. 

“Although they both begged the aunt to remain 
with them, she returned to her old house in the 
82 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


town. Had she remained, who knows but that a 
tragedy might have been averted. Although there 
were no children, the marriage seemed a success. 
Then apparently a little rift began. Although I 
feel certain that he loved her passionately, he was 
outwardly cold and undemonstrative and insanely 
jealous, while she, as women sometimes will, han¬ 
kered after company and little attentions. A 
strangely attractive creature she was, not precisely 
beautiful, but always with a soft appeal about her. 
I—I can think of no other word to describe it than 
the word herrengeschmack. I feel that one perhaps 
ought not to use that language after all that has 
passed, but doubtless it conveys all that I mean.” 

I assured him that I comprehended thoroughly. 

“Well,” he continued, “what I suppose was in¬ 
evitable happened just as if it were in a cheap 
melodrama. Two artists on a walking tour—for 
I have told you that our country-side has a wild, 
weird beauty of its own—arrived one day at the 
inn and rested there that night. Next day one went 
on alone; the other remained. I only saw him 
once—alive, and he has left no impression—a 
colourless individual. I do not think he personally 
had any attraction for the poor, misguided 
creature. He merely crossed her path when her 
83 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


soul was in revolt at what she doubtless consid¬ 
ered was her husband’s neglect, and had drifted 
into it before she realised what she was doing. 
Who dare throw a stone? My house lies at a little 
distance beyond the outskirts of the town at the 
other end from where the inn stood. We call it 
town, although it is little more than one long, strag¬ 
gling street. As is my habit, I was one night sit¬ 
ting reading in my study on the ground floor. I 
am unmarried, and my housekeeper had long since 
gone to bed, for I was later than is usual with me, 
so when I heard a tap on my window I did not 
hesitate to unlock and open the house door myself. 
A country doctor gets accustomed to such things. 
The night was pitch dark, and coming from my 
lighted room I could not for a moment distinguish 
who was my late visitor till he spoke, and then I 
recognised my—my young friend, the blacksmith 
of the inn. At that time I had no suspicion of 
trouble in his home, and while wondering at the 
lateness of the hour, for it was past midnight and 
we are early people in those parts, I welcomed him 
in, for, as I have told you, I had a fondness for 
the lad, or man as he then was. He entered my 
room but did not speak. Without asking my per¬ 
mission, which he would always do, for his aunt 
84 


THE CORONER’S TALE 

had brought him up strictly, really much above his 
station, he sat down heavily in an arm-chair be¬ 
side the fireplace, and gripping the arms he re¬ 
mained bolt upright, staring into the dying fire, 
still silent. I seated myself opposite to him, and 
then for the first time I saw his face. Although 
ordinarily I am not a coward, I felt a wave of sheer 
physical terror. It was the face of a demon, not 
a man. For some moments we sat there in silence, 
and although I struggled to ask him what had hap¬ 
pened, my tongue refused its office. Then his eyes 
left the fire and, looking me full in the face, with¬ 
out faltering, he told me his story slowly, bringing 
each sentence out with a wrench. More than once 
I raised my hand in horror to check him, but he 
continued remorselessly to the end, sparing me no 
detail, and the light, not in his eyes, but behind 
them, filled me with a fear I cannot describe to 
you. He had left early that morning to go to a 
market town some distance away from ours, and 
from which he could not possibly get back till the 
next day. He seems, however, to have changed his 
mind when about half-way there and had gone to 
some other place in connection with a deal in horses; 
I have told you of his fondness for them. Return¬ 
ing unexpectedly the same night, he had surprised 
85 


THE CORONER’S TALE 

his wife with this artist literally in flagrante. He 
had knocked the wretched fellow senseless and, 
locking the wailing girl in the house, had carried 
him—I have told you of his great strength—to the 
smithy. There he tore every stitch of clothes off 
him, and screwing him into a vice on the bench, 
knocked the handle out, and going into his kitchen 
returned with a large knife and placed it within 
reach of the wretch’s- hand. He then went back for 
his wife. He threw the half-demented creature 
roughly over his shoulder and put her in beside 
the man, bound her to the anvil, gagged and left 
her. 

“He rose to his feet when he finished speaking, 
and to have saved my life I could not have moved. 
Next moment, without one other word, he was gone. 
Recovering myself, I hurried to the house door, 
which he had left open, but he had vanished into 
the night. I called his name, but there was not a 
sound. I got back somehow to my room, and as 
I tried to pour myself out some brandy I found my 
hands shaking like those of a palsied creature. 
How long I sat trying to think, I cannot recall, but 
some time during the early morning hours I heard 
the sounds of footsteps running in my avenue. I 
started to my feet and reached the house door, 
86 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


which in my agitation I had left open, just as one 
of the local people ran up. He gasped out his 
news. The guilty pair had been found in the 
smithy by some person who had called at the inn. 
The man was quite dead when they got him and the 
poor girl died in a mad-house a few years later. 

“To-day,” and it seemed to me that his voice 
dropped and he spoke more slowly, “near the rail¬ 
way station at which I arrived, walking towards me 
I saw the murderer , for that he undoubtedly was, 
whatever his provocation. He was dressed as a 
Colonial soldier, I do not know the differences be¬ 
tween them, and walked as straight as ever. Noth¬ 
ing could bow those shoulders, but his head was 
sunk forward, and though he is still young his hair 
was white and his face the face of a dead man. 
He looked at me—no, not at me, but through me, 
without any sign of recognition. As he passed I 
saw that his sleeve had a number of those wound 
stripes, and he seemed like a man, too brave to die 
by his own hand, who had sought the death he 
would have welcomed and had failed to find. The 
next instant he had been swallowed up in the crowd. 
My God! I had let him go! I—had—let—him— 
go!” and placing his elbows on the table he buried 
his face in his frail hands. 

87 


THE CORONER’S TALE 


Feeling slightly uncomfortable, I asked him 
quietly what else he could or would have done, and 

in a whisper I caught the words: “He—is—my— 

_ 

son. 


88 


“SCOTS WHA HAE” 













M Sk 






“SCOTS WHA HAE” 


He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes, to Scotland, and 
concludes in hearty prayers. 

—Henry IV 

T HE “Victory” Grand National had been 
run, and that great horse, Poethlyn, had 
carried the top weight to victory with 
consummate ease. The Liverpool hotel smoking- 
room was packed with hot, flushed, strident-voiced 
sporting men—which is not quite the same thing 
as sportsmen—and the waiters never knew an idle 
moment. 

In the comer farthest from the door a little 
coterie of sycophants surrounded The Nabob. 
Coarse, swollen and unlovely, his overdressed ap¬ 
pearance and fine linen striking a painful note in 
contrast to his unwashed paws, there was yet that 
in the man’s shaven face which arrested the atten¬ 
tion, and made one think of Tammany bosses, who, 
going over, through, or under, seldom failed to 
reach the other side safely. 

A prominent “layer,” the deference of his cro- 
91 


‘SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


nies was their outward testimony to his success— 
your professional racing gentleman wastes no time 
paying court to failures. Although the favourite 
had won the big race, he had had a good day and 
was graciously pleased to unbend in reminiscence. 

“Wonder wye you never does the Scotch meet¬ 
ings, George?” remarked one of the circle, and 
was proceeding to explain his reason for wonder¬ 
ing when simultaneous kicks landing on his ankles 
from his immediate neighbours, and the deepening 
scowl on the face of George, otherwise known as 
The Nabob, made him, literally, painfully aware 
that he had dropped a brick. 

“If I thought you was tryin’ to come it on me, 
me lad,” growled the big man slowly, when he was 
interrupted by a chorus of apologetic assurances. 
Mollified, The Nabob noisily finished his drink, 
drew the back of a hand across his mouth and 
grabbed a passing waiter. “Same again all round, 
an’ bring the cigars,” he called. 

His august health having been drunk, by no one 
with more fervour than the unhappy questioner, 
who, under cover of the waiter’s arrival with his 
well-laden tray, was fiercely cursed sotto voce by 
the others, fearing an untimely stoppage of their 
host’s bounty. The Nabob settled himself in his 
92 


‘SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


chair, sucked heavily at his cigar and, in a voice 
hoarse with years of shouting and rich living, be¬ 
gan impressively: “I’ve only bin in Scotland oncet 
—an’ that’s round twenty year ago. I’ve never 
bin back since, but swelp me gawd, if ever I do go, 
it’ll be to commit murder. ’Owsomever, as you, 
me lad, don’t seem to know yer ’istory, I don’t 
mind lettin’ yer ’ave the facts, as a warnin’. 

“Me an’ Bert Fryer, wot none on ye won’t re¬ 
member as-” 

“Yoong Bert Fryer!” exclaimed one of his 
audience. “Wye, ah moind on ’em w’en ’e wor a 
yoong laad: ’e wor born not a ’oondred yaards 
from w’ere ah lived woon toime i’ Oodersfeald, 

„ 9 99 

an- 

“Oh, shut yer face, yer blinkin’ Sheffielder,” 
blared The Nabob angrily. “ ’Oo in ’ell wants ter 
’ear yew?” 

For a second an ugly gleam showed in the as¬ 
sailed one’s eyes, and for another second he thought 
of plashing his drink in the overbearing bully’s 
face, but the earliest lesson your racing parasite 
learns is the futility of yielding to impulse. After 
all, he reflected, racing has its ups and downs: his 
turn might come, so he mumbled an apology and 
George took up his tale afresh. 

93 



“SCOTS WHA HAE” 


“Yes, as I was sayin’, me an’ Bert ’ad bin 
workin’ the northern meetings that autumn, ’im 
doin’ the clerkin’ an’ goin’ ’alves in the book, an’ 
not ’avin’ bin doin’ too well, we decides to go on 
wiv some o’ the crowd as was goin’ to that there 
land of ’ope and glory, an’ tearin’ a bit off the 
natives. We starts at Ayr and gets broke right off 
the reel, one favrit after another rollin’ up. Yes, 
me an’ Bert fairly gets it in the neck at Ayr, 
but we borrows enough to open the book again at 
Paisley an’ sorter ’eld our own there. Then we 
goes on to a place they calls Lanarick or some such, 
but lor’! they was bettin’ in thripenny bits there , 
so we finally lands at Musselburgh sufferin’ sore 
from financial cramp. 

“Musselburgh! Blimey, to this day it gives me 
a pain inside if I as much as sees a mussel , an’ fer 
years the sight of a whelk-barrer fair turned me 
sick. Yer knows the place most on yer; wot they 
calls a prosp’rous fishin’ town, outside Edinburgh, 
wiv the track runnin’ round a golf-course on the 
shore an’ ’ouses at the near end. 

“Well, me an Bert manages to raise a bit more 
an’ takes up our pitch in the silver ring. But lor’! 
when yer luck’s out it’s hout, an’ that’s all there’s 
to it, an’ each race leaves me an Bert worse an’ 
94 


“SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


worse, till, when the second last race was run, we 
was cleaned out proper. I was fer borrowin’ a 
quid from ’Arry Bates an’ goin’ straight back to 
Edinburgh an’ drinkin’ meself silly, but Bert 
wouldn’t ’ave it. So ’e unfolds ’is little scheme, 
an’ many a time that day I wished I’d choked ’im 
instead o’ listenin’ to ’im. 

“We was oppersit the grand stand and the ring 
across the track, an’ back of us was the small 
stand, an’ back o’ that again was a long row o’ 
layers bettin’ in rags, bones an’ drippin’ wiv the 
simple an’ unserfisticated native. So Bert’s bright 
idea was as we should ’ump the box right down 
to the end o’ this row, which stretched diagonal 
across the course nearly touchin’ the rails on that 
side. 

“There was only two runners in the last race, 
an’ as George M’Coll was ridin’ one, which was 
pretty certain to be favrit, we was to lay the out¬ 
sider all ends up, wotever we could get ’em to take 
an’ chance it, Bert arguin’ that if so as it didn’t 
come off, we’d be runnin’ away from their ’appy 
’omes, an’ them flounder-footed mussel-catchers 
wouldn’t be like to foiler us far. Now, Bert could 
move a bit, an’ as I could leg it a bit myself in 
them days, I gives in.” 


95 


‘SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


“Ah, you wor aalways pooty good aal round, 
George,” said the persistent gentleman from Shef¬ 
field, in a praiseworthy endeavour to recover the 
market. 

“There wasn’t much I couldn’t ’andle in me 
young days,’ said the gratified ex-athlete. “Touch 
the bell.” 

A harassed waiter having done his part, The 
Nabob resumed: 

“Well, along we goes, an’, as I thought, little 
George’s mount was favrit. Five to one they was 
layin’ in the ring against the other, an’ we was 
givin’ the locals up to tens; pretty soon we ’ad as 
much in the satchel as would ’ave ’eld down a 
balloon, but wot worried me was that as they 
brassed up their bobs an’ arf-dollars they stopped 
wiv us. Just ’ung round starin’ wiv their ’ands in 
them cross-cut britches pockets as they uses, an’ 
there they stands. 

Wot bewties they was! Great ’ulking brewts, 
all cheek-bones an’ feet—an’ wot feet! Like them 
foldin’-down beds as we uster git in the cheap 
dosses at the Brighton meetin’s. 

“Well, there we was an’ there they was. When 
the ’osses starts an’ come round be’ind us, I sees 
the outsider was only canterin’, an’ I looks at Bert, 
96 


“SCOTS WHA HAE” 

an’ Bert looks at me, an’ I sees somethin’ desprit 
’as got to be done. So I passes a wink to ’im, an’ 
just as they was cornin’ up the straight together I 
starts a cry, The favrit wins! The favrit wins! 
A skinner! I never laid it!’ and Bert, who was 
dam quick to pick anything up, ’e turns an’ grabs 
me fist, shoutin’, ‘Well done, George!’ 

“So this seems to ’urt the feelin’s o’ them yokels, 
an’ they clusters together an’ sorter moves towards 
the winnin’ post. Not as they ’ad an earthly ’ope o’ 
gettin’ there, but bein’ that dam greedy, they was 
edgin’ up to where they thought the scene o’ their 
misfortunes was, so to speak. 

“Wiv that I passes the satchel quite slow an’ con¬ 
fident to Bert, ’im bein’, as I’ve said, pretty ’ot 
stuff at sprintin’, an’ just as we could see the two 
caps bobbin’ past the post, over the ’eads o’ the 
crowd, the outsider winnin’ easy—we ’ops it. 

“We gets a bit of a start before them Johnnie- 
raws spots wot’s ’appened; then they let out one 
despairin’ ’owl an’ comes after us. Straight down 
this ’ere links, as they calls it, we runs, an’ after 
their first ’owl, them ’eathens never gives tongue. 
Gawd! I can feel it all yet. When we was runnin’, 
I remembered one o’ Spikey Nurton’s yarns—’im 
as was up at Klondyke—about them there timber- 
97 


‘SCOTS WHA HAE 5 


wolves ’untin’ in packs, an’ runnin’ mute, as ’e put 
it. It ’elped me along a yard or two that rekerlek- 
shun did, I can tell yer. An’ thinkin’ on wolves an’ 
things an’ lookin apprehensive over me shoulder, 
I never notices a great yawnin’ sand-’ole till I falls 
slap inter it. One o’ them places where they puts 
them as is learnin’ this golf business, so as they 
won’t ’arm nobody, an’ ’ead over ’eels in I tumbles, 
Bert, ’avin’ seen it in time, swingin’ round by the 
end. Through it I goes, wiv ’underweights o’ sand 
in me eyes an’ me boots an’ down me collar, an’ 
be sugared if the far side of it wasn’t lined wiv 
railway sleepers on end. Wot a country! 

“ ’Owsomever, I realises as I’m running fer me 
life, so over I scrambles some’ow, and as them 
blinkin’ savages ’ad ’ad to come round the end, 
same as Bert, we ’ad still a bit in ’and. Keepin’ 
together, we ducks under the rail, crosses the track, 
ducks under the other, an’ on we runs wiv not a 
sound from them feroshus ’eather-Jocks bar the 
clumpin’ o’ their feet—an’ I’ve told yer wot they 
was like. 

“On we sprints, increasin’ our lead ’andsome, 
an’ feelin’ we was goin’ to bring it off, when out o’ 
the ground from nowhere springs two young 
blighters wiv no ’ats, bare knees, an’ red stockin’s. 

98 


“SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


‘Take ’im low, Hughie!’ sings out one, an’ wiv that 
the other, a ginger-’eaded little devil, makes a fly- 
in’ dive at Bert’s legs, an’ the pair on ’em does a 
regular Catherine wheel. The satchel bursts open, 
an’ our ’ard-earned spondulicks goes buzzin’ all 
over the place. 

“An ’arf-dollar catches me in the eye, just as 
the other limb o’ Satan plays the cop-’im-low touch 
on me, but I sees wot ’as ’appened to Bert, so I 
swerves an’ catches ’im a back’ander. Just as I 
done that I trips over a rock, an’ goes swoosh all 
me length in the sea, rippin’ the seat and ’arf one 
o’ the legs out o’ me trousers. I struggles to me 
knees, coughin’ up pints an’ pints o’ nasty salt 
water, an’ I’d just found me feet, ’oldin’ on to wot 
was left o’ me trousers, when a lump of turf as 
big as a steak-an’-kidney puddin’ get me fair on 
the side o’ me ’ead, an’ bowls me over again. I 
gets up, proper ragin’ mad, an’ was just makin’ 
a rush at this young swine when I realises that the 
crowd as ’ad come up wasn’t goin’ to ’ave that. 
One ’arf o’ them murderin’ ’Ottentots was pullin’ 
pore old Bert to ribbons an’ pickin’ up our money, 
an’ the other ’arf comes along the shore, tearin’ 
it up by the roots an’ ’eavin it at me, led on by 
this young blighter wiv no ’at. Stones an’ turf 
99 


“SCOTS WHA HAE” 


an’ them flat bottles which all them ’eathens puts 
in their ’ip pockets regular of a momin’, same as 
the Dook o’ Portland ’ud say to ’is valley: ‘Fill 
me cigar-case.’ ” 

“But wot was they, George?’ asked one horri¬ 
fied listener. 

“Oh, I found out after wot they was, all right,” 
answered The Nabob. “There’s a wicked old man 
in them parts as runs a semingnary fer young toffs. 
’E trains ’em special to go about wiv their ’eads an’ 
their knees ’an gawd knows wot else bare: feeds 
’em on iron filings an’ other strengthenin’ foods, 
an’ turns ’em out as big as men an’ strong as bull 
calves. An’ them two, instead o’ being indoors 
nice an’ proper, doin’ their little sums an’ writin’ 
up their copy-books, ’ad sneaked out to see the 
racin’, an’ out o’ pure cussedness, interferes wiv 

me an’ Bert, just as we- Oh, dammit! touch 

that bell,” and, overcome by the recollection, he 
spat fiercely and drained his glass. 

The waiter having filled in the pause, he 
continued: 

“Every time I tries to get ashore they starts 
volleyin’ at me. Forchinately the water wasn’t 
deep, so I could get outer range wivout ’avin’ to 
swim, which I can’t do, but, gostrewth! think of it. 

100 



‘SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


Me best pal murdered before me very eyes by 
them cannibals: me up to me middle in the sea wiv 
’arf me trousers gone an’ bung full o’ sand an’ 
sickenin’ salt water, an’ no prospect o’ gettin’ out 
wiv ’undreds an’ ’undreds of ’em waitin’ to kill me. 

66 ’Owsomever, I couldn’t live there, so I starts 
to move on a bit, but blimey! if they didn’t follow 
me up. Twice I pitches into ’oles an’ goes over me 
’ead, them reptiles cheerin’ like ’ell each time. Wot 
a country! Well, this goes on, me workin’ along 
the beach, an’ after it come down darkish they 
petered off, an’ I gets ashore ’arf dead, among 
some rocks an’ ’ouses, ’avin’ come right the ’ole 
length o’ the course in the water. 

“Perishin’ wiv cold, I sets down where I can’t 
be seen an’ takes stock o’ the situation, so to speak. 
I was examinin’ me rewined trousers when I spots 
a pair ’angin’ up on a rope in a backyard sort o’ 
place. Well, thinks I, that’s a start, anyhow, an’ 
as soon as it was proper dark I nips in an’ ’as ’em, 
an’ drags ’em on over me own. Strike me lucky 
if I don’t think they must ’ave bin made fer a 
blinkin’ elephant. ’Owsomever, they covered me, 
an’ I feels better already.” 

“Ah, you wor aalways a good-plooked ’un, 
George,” chipped in the determined Sheffielder. 

101 


“SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


“Well, anyhow, I ’ad to get a move on, but 
I was fair dyin’ fer just—one—drink. Of course 
I ’adn’t a bean, but creepin’ along in the shadows, 
the streets bein’ quiet, I spots a nice little pub. I 
looks in—empty, an’ only a lad in charge, rubbin’ 
up some glasses. I knew ’e couldn’t leave the 
place, so in I goes. ‘Evenin’, matey,’ I sez, as 
’earty-like as I could on me diet o’ sand an’ salts, 
‘glass o’ whisky,’ makin’ believe to dive fer me 
pocket wiv the ’and as wasn’t ’oldin’ up the yards 
o’ the slack o’ me pants. ’E looks funny-like at 
me, but sets down the drink, which I grabs an’ 
tosses off neat. Fair scorched me throat, it did, but 
I can feel the effect o’ that life-savin’ drink now. 
Then I gathers ’e’s sayin’ somethin’, though ’eavin 
knows wot gibberish ’e was gettin’ rid of.” 

“It’s a dialec’ them Scotties speaks, same as the 
Maoris an’ that lot,” said a travelled member of 
his audience. 

“P’raps you’re right, but I wasn’t stoppin’ there 
long enough to learn it. I sees it was up to me 
to make a quick get-away, so I turns round an’ pre¬ 
tends to spot some pals through the glass door— 
starts an imaginary conversation through the door 
which I ’arf opened, then slips out an’ runs like 
’ell, ’oldin’ me pants in me two ’ands. I did ’ear 
102 


“SCOTS WHA HAE” 


the pore lad callin’ out doleful, but I knew as ’e 
couldn’t leave the place, so I gets away safe over a 
bridge. Still keepin’ in the shadows, I soon gets 
clear o’ the blasted death-trap. I sees lights ahead: 
miles an’ miles ahead. I wasn’t sure of me direc¬ 
tion, but as it was suicide to try the railway 
station I trudges on in the dark. I passes dwellin’- 
’ouses now an’ then, but by keepin’ well down by 
the shore I gets through all right. Then I passes a 
pier like Brighton, but nothin’ lookin’ like Edin¬ 
burgh. Finally I strikes a road wot didn’t seem 
to ’ave no beginnin’ nor no end, wiv no lamps, an’ 
’undreds an’ thousands o’ rats squealin’ all over the 
place an’ me alone. Proper terrified I was, I give 
yer me word, but the thought o’ them cannibals be¬ 
hind pushed me on. I crosses a railway line an’ 
presently strikes streets again. I passes one or two 
likely pubs, but on poppin’ me ’ead in I sees it 
wasn’t no place fer me—crowded to the door they 
was wiv people singin’ an’ fightin’, so I drags on 
me weary way till I comes to a bit o’ grass an’ a 
flag-pole an two or three streets convergin’, the 
place as lively as a cemetery, that quiet it was. I 
sets down on a doorstep, an’ when a rozzer comes 
up I was that done in, I didn’t try to get away. 

“ ’E considers me fer a bit, turnin’ ’is lantern on 
103 


‘SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


me, then ’e starts ’is gibberish. ‘Wor did ye git 
they claze,’ was wot ’e sez, an’ I can remember it 
word fer word now, fer ’e kep’ on repeatin’ of it, 
but wot in ’ell ’e meant fair beat me, till ’e starts 
’andlin me ’orrible britches, then I rumbles. I 
starts pitchin’ a tale about ’avin’ bin shipwrecked, 
when swelp me ’e turns ’is lantern off an’ starts 
laughin’. I must ’ave bin a sight, too, but imagine 
a Scotchman seein’ a joke. So we gets matey, as 
far as people speakin’ different langwidges can, 
an’ I sez, ‘Friends—Edinburgh.’ ‘Oh, Edin- 
burry?’ ’e sez, an’ ’e starts explainin’ an’ pointin’, 
an’ I gathers ’e’s tellin’ me where it lays an’ that 
I’ve gotter take a tram car—‘cawr’ ’e called it—an’ 
may I die, when I gets ’im ter understand as I’m 
stony broke, if ’e doesn’t shake out a deuce o’ 
browns an’ ’ands ’em over still chucklin’. That’s 
somethin’ to remember, a blinkin’ Scotchman givin’ 
away money. 

“Presently I sees an antideloovian bus shovin’ a 
pair o’ crocks along the rails in the middle o’ the 
street, so on I gets, an’ not desirin’ much attention, 

I goes outside an’ sets there shiverin’, an’ cursin’ 
me luck, an’ thinkin’ about pore Bert, an’ all the 
while we goes miles an’ miles up a great dam ’ill 
wiv ’undreds o’ pubs on both sides o’ this ever- 
104 


“SCOTS WHA HAE’ 


lastin’ street, which was crowded wiv people fightin’ 
an’ singin’. Wot a country! 

“After stoppin’ a few times to take out the ’arf- 
dead nags an’ ’itch on more, we reaches the top, 
doin’ the last ’arf-mile at a walk—an’ me dyin’ wiv 
cold. Then I reckernises the Register ’Ouse, an’ 
I knew as I’d find me pals at the little club at the 
back, but the trouble was ’ow to get there. There 
was millions an’ millions more people about, all 
drunk an’ all singin’ an’ fightin’, so I ’opes to slip 
through wivout attractin’ much notice to meself— 
but nothin’ doin’. A couple o’ newsboys spots me 
an’ starts a tallyo, an’ in ’arf-a-mo’ we ’as a crowd 
round like an execution, an’ me playin’ principal 
boy. A couple of rozzers comes through an’ grabs 
me, an’ was just marchin’ me off, when up comes 
Danny Sullivan. Wot ’e said or done I dunno, but 
’e was always smart enough to whisper the fleas off 
a dog’s ear, so ’e gets me away, chokin’ wiv 
laughin’, an’ shoves me in a quiet doorway. 

“ ‘George,’ sez ’e, shakin’ all over like a lump o’ 
potted meat, ‘wot’s ’appened?’ So I tells ’im, 
brief. ‘George,’ sez ’e, fishin’ out a bundle o’ them 
Scotch notes, an’ peelin’ off five, ‘there’s a fiver, 
straight, if you’ll come up to the club an’ let the 
boys see yer as you are . 9 Well, I was tryin’ to go 
105 


“SCOTS WHA HAE” 


there anyway, so I reckon that was me first bit o’ 
luck. Up ’e ’elps me, an’ never in me life did I 
’ear such a scream o’ laughter as went up when I 
goes in. Nobody ’adn’t ’eard anything o’ pore 
Bert, so I’d given ’im up, when I runs across ’im 
at Gosforth Park a bit later, lookin’ the pictur’ o'* 
misery in a suit ’e’d borrowed, which was three 
sizes too big. ’E ’ad a face like a rainbow, ’is left 
arm in a sling, an’ ’im limpin’ about, leanin’ ’eavy 
on a stick. ‘George,’ ’e whispers, lookin’ at me 
dismal outer ’is one eye as wasn’t bunged up, an’ 
shakin’ ’is ’ead solemn, ‘I’m through wiv racin’— 
an’ ’e was. They’d a whip round fer ’im soon 
after, an’ he went off to New Zealand that same 
month. 

“Well, I never gives up ’ope o’ gettin 5 square 
wiv that there schoolmaster, an’ when them suf- 
ridge wimmin starts burnin’ ’ouses down I thinks 
I sees me chance. So one day I takes a ’ansom 
down to their place in Lincoln’s Inn an’ looks in, an’ 
sez I wants to give ’em a ’andsome subscripshun. 
Lumme, funds must ’ave bin low, fer they was all 
over me, some ’arf-dozen on ’em, but when I sez 
wot I wants done in return for it, they fair sets 
about me wiv their tongues, ’eaded by one purple¬ 
faced old ’en. Knowin’ wot they was capable of, I 
106 


“SCOTS WHA HAE” 


beats a ’asty retreat, this crimson rambler ’ard 
after me, callin’ out fer me to be ashamed o’ me- 
self. ‘It’s you men,’ she yells—’strewth! I 
thought she’d be stickin’ a ’atpin inter me if I 
wasn’t dam quick. ‘It’s you men that’s the cause 
of all the trouble,’ she screams, cornin’ right out 
inter the street. ‘Yes,’ I shouts back at ’er, ‘an’ 
your trouble is that yer can’t git one’—an’ bolts. 

“An’ just to think, if it ’adn’t bin fer them two 
young - Dammit! Touch the bell, some¬ 

body.” 


107 








I 



r 





A TRAGEDY 


























A TRAGEDY 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

—Thomas Gray 

F OR two consecutive Saturdays, always at 
the same hour of the evening, the haunt¬ 
ing strains of that old negro melody 
“Swanee River” had made those sitting round the 
well-appointed dinner table feel slightly uncom¬ 
fortable, not to say ashamed, of their atmosphere 
of warmth and comfort. Mid-winter Saturday 
evenings out of doors in that industrial city are 
normally an unpleasant and cheerless combination 
of wet, cold and gloom, heartlessly accentuated 
by the smack of harsh electric lamps. It was a 
woman’s voice of that almost indefinable quality 
that we call refined. The faint notes barely pene¬ 
trated the heavy old-fashioned closely-drawn cur¬ 
tains, as the singer passed quickly down the ter¬ 
race. Street singers were few in the district, which 
was an unintentional mercy. Supplicants for aid 
were usually more direct in their methods. The 
“undeserving poor” abounded. That plausible 
111 


A TRAGEDY 


and often aggressive under layer of society, the 
jetsam, who from chronic inertia and congenital 
ineptitude, batten on the often misguided charity 
of others. 

Despite the wailing of romanticists over the 
decay of Beggars, the residents at times felt the 
need for someone to emulate that capable man 
James the Second (he of Scotland) in his “staunch- 
ing” of those “masterful beggars and pretended 
fools.” 

Yet the unspoken appeal behind the words of the 
old song could not be ignored. When on the third 
consecutive and wet Saturday the touching lament: 

“All the world am sad and dreary” 


drifted past, one of those at table remarked, 
“There’s poor Melba again” and a messenger was 
hastily despatched to bring the singer in. 

The ladies of the house interviewed the poor 
creature in the hall. The master of the house con¬ 
tinued his dinner. He had his own personal 
retinue of insatiable pensioners to support and he 
observed caustically that his existing monthly price 
of peace from the tale-pitching brotherhood was 
sufficient—he would leave the gentle sex to his 
woman-folk. When he passed through the hall 
112 


A TRAGEDY 


after dinner and, sniffing indignantly, remarked 
that the plumbers must be telephoned for in the 
morning to examine the drains, it was the only un¬ 
kind word ever spoken about poor Mrs. Maclarty. 
And in truth she carried about with her a ripe 
natural odour like a whole cageful of young foxes. 

So far as a casual observer might judge, she 
never changed her raiment: what it covered one 
shuddered to think. 

She always wore an old-fashioned mauve bonnet 
and an older-fashioned all-embracing mantle. In 
general outward appearance she had an extraor¬ 
dinary resemblance to Nicholson’s drawing of the 
late and ever-to-be-lamented Queen Victoria. 

Her pitiful tale was the sad and sordid story 
of desertion by a drunken brute of a husband. She 
had been a governess in a county family—which 
may have accounted for her refined speech—and, 
against her parents’ wishes, had made a runaway 
marriage with a callous thriftless scoundrel, who, 
after dragging her down to the depths had left her 
penniless and gone, she believed, to America. 
Stranded with three children she bravely struggled 
for a bare existence for them and for herself, by 
working at odd jobs outside during the day and 
at home far into the night, to keep them in decency. 

113 


A TRAGEDY 


A chronic sore on one leg, the result of her hus¬ 
band’s hoot, prevented her securing regular work 
as she had to attend every other day at the in¬ 
firmary to have it dressed. 

Yet always, when she was welcomed in the hall 
by the lady of the house, she bobbed a curtsey and 
curtseyed again on leaving. She told her tragic 
story so simply and quietly that it would have 
moved Nero to pity. Forced to live in poverty- 
stricken squalor, from the conscious or instinctive 
superiority the educated poor cannot help feeling 
in such surroundings, and for her children’s sake, 
she kept aloof from her neighbours, attending 
church regularly despite their taunts. 

Her three children, a little girl and two small 
boys, she was fortunately able to teach herself, 
pathetically hoping against hope that she might 
one day find herself earning enough to be able to 
send them to some school, where the good manners 
she strove to inculcate at home might not be cor¬ 
rupted by the urchins of the gutter, with whom she 
would not allow them to mix. She felt the bitter¬ 
ness of the constant inquisitions of the School 
Board Inspectors, whose task it is to see that the 
full benefits and blessings of free education do not 
go astray. 


114 


A TRAGEDY 


She never begged. It was obvious that the miser¬ 
able woman felt her position keenly, for, although 
she had received every material and verbal en¬ 
couragement to do so, she passed quickly the fol¬ 
lowing Saturday evening without coming to the 
door of the house. She was only induced to come 
in on the next Saturday by again sending a mes¬ 
senger. The poor soul confessed through her sobs 
that begging was so distasteful and repugnant to 
her, that had it not been for her children’s sake, 
she would long ago have given up the hopeless fight 
and sought oblivion in the river. Often and often, 
she told the ladies, she had heart-brokenly trailed 
round the houses of the terraces in the wet and 
bitter cold, wistfully envious of the lights and 
warmth within, and not a door had been opened 
to her. Her patient resignation under the cruel 
hardships of her lot, and the rank injustices of life, 
made one wonder for what we are called upon to 
give praise to Jehovah. 

But after the ice of her reserve had been broken 
she called regularly on her kindly patrons. By then 
she was made to feel in the subtle fashion of which 
only true gentlefolk have the gift, that she was 
not being used as a conscience-salving charity rag¬ 
bag. Not in the manner that the smug, successful 
115 


A TRAGEDY 


sweater, having purchased his peerage, endows 
and embellishes the House of God, thereby achiev¬ 
ing additional merit on this earth, and hopeful of 
mitigating possibilities, which loom unpleasantly 
as he nears his end. 

They were genuinely interested in the stricken 
woman’s plucky struggle to bring up her children. 
Thanks to them she could now send the little ones 
decently clothed to the respectable school she had 
longed for. With growing pride she would tell 
the ladies of their progress at day and Sunday 
schools when she made her weekly call. Gladly 
and gratefully would she accept old garments from 
them, and it is to be feared that the pensioners of 
the master of the house suffered through the un¬ 
timely abstractions of cast-off tweeds intended for 
them. The two elder children—wee Tommy and 
wee Ailie, as she, with the lower class Scot’s delight 
in the abominable diminutive, would call them— 
were healthy high-spirited youngsters whose romps 
kept their harassed mother in a constant state of 
patching, but the younger boy, wee Willie, was a 
continual anxiety. Insufficient nourishment from 
birth, that supreme tragedy of the poor who fierce¬ 
ly resent charity, seemed to have permanently im¬ 
paired the child’s stamina. 

116 


A TRAGEDY 


Although her new-found helpers had made her 
load so light by contrast to the hell of the past, 
that she assured them life seemed like Heaven, 
poor little Willie was always ailing, and despite 
the help she got of jellies, fruit and other delica¬ 
cies, it made sore inroads on the hard wrought 
mother’s scanty gamerings. Still she struggled 
on and Winter succeeded Winter. 

As each Spring came round and days length¬ 
ened, her weekly call became later and later in 
the evening. Her pride was such that to have 
saved her life she could not have sung in the streets, 
unless under cover of the friendly darkness or 
dusk. Nor would she hear of it when once or 
twice the ladies volunteered to visit her home or 
tried to persuade her to bring her little ones to the 
hospitable house. She could not bear the idea of 
their seeing the surroundings in which she and the 
children had to exist, but above all, she recoiled 
from the idea of her family knowing that they 
were so dependent on charity. Respecting the good 
woman’s feelings the matter was not pressed. 

Yet, while it was the charitable family’s custom 
to spend the Summer and Autumn months in the 
country, the thoughtful lady of the house never 
forgot to make provision during her absence for 
117 


A TRAGEDY 


her less fortunate sister. And year followed year. 

There came a Winter when Tommie, no longer 
wee, was soon to be apprenticed to a plumber, 
whilst the girl Ailie, anxious as her mother was 
to keep her at home, would soon have to go out 
to work, for the younger boy required such unre¬ 
mitting attention that the mother had now often 
to allow days to pass attending him; days when she 
could not work and so reluctantly became more 
and more dependent on the charity of her kind 
friends. 

And with that Spring came the first sad break 
in the hospitable household. Death removed the 
gracious lady whose kindly consideration had made 
the sorely-tried mother’s life again almost worth 
living, and Mrs. Maclarty saw her no more. The 
poor woman crept to the house the night before 
the funeral and tearfully left a pitiful gift of 
white flowers with a touching letter of heartfelt 
gratitude. Alas, when the family moved to the 
country earlier than usual her allowance was quite 
forgotten. 

Time, whose soothing touch keeps us all from 
going mad, through grief, had lifted the shadow, 
when that Autumn, I arrived at the country house 
for a week-end visit. With the last delivery of 
118 


A TRAGEDY 


letters on the Saturday night, came a letter from 
Mrs. Maclarty. Her little boy had died. 

I have her letter before me now as I write. It is 
hurriedly scrawled on two blue-lined pages of a 
child’s school exercise-book. There was no post¬ 
age stamp on the envelope, and we could under¬ 
stand why not. It was the expression of the pent- 
up feelings of a heart-broken woman. Her child, 
his sufferings over, lay there dead in the two- 
roomed hovel (I saw it later) which to them had 
been home, and there was not a copper in the house. 

Whilst her once generous friends in their sor¬ 
row had at least enjoyed the material comforts of 
life, and the sympathy of friends, and the recol¬ 
lection of long happy years with one who was no 
more, this poor woman had watched, alone and 
friendless, by the bedside of her dying boy; dying 
ft might be for the want of the delicacies once 
so freely bestowed. It was an awful thought that 
he might have been saved. But the ministering 
hand had been removed, and the others had indif¬ 
ferently forgotten. Her stubborn pride forbade 
her asking help from her neighbours and she wrote 
that gradually all had been pawned; clothes, her 
wedding-ring, bed-linen, even the school-books, till 
at last the little corpse lay without even a winding 
119 


A TRAGEDY 


sheet. “If I could only weep,” the grief-stricken 
woman wrote, and one pictured the dry-eyed 
mother comforting as best she might her terrified 
children, whilst in the comer, on a miserable pallet 
lay . . . 

I was immediately posted off to despatch some 
financial help. We passed a depressing Sunday 
amidst the Autumn sunshine. As early as might 
be, I arrived in the town by train, and before hur¬ 
rying down to the address on the letter I made my 
way to an undertaking firm. We would see that 
the poor child was at least decently buried, and the 
mother spared the shame of knowing that he would 
lie in a pauper’s grave. I chose a plain white coffin 
and told them to make all the sad but necessary 
arrangements. The gentleman in charge, dressed 
in discreet black, whose voice seemed permanently 
pitched in a low sympathetic key, undertook to 
have everything done. Then I headed for the 
stricken home. 

In late Victorian days, when the subject was the 
most important thing in Graphic Art, a well-chosen 
title for a picture frequently meant fame and 
riches to the painter. Pill vendors, soap makers, 
whisky magnates, and all such public benefactors 
competed to buy the bright original with which to 
call attention to their useful wares. 

120 


A TRAGEDY 


The three central figures of a small crowd slow¬ 
ly progressing towards me along the unattractive 
street, recalled a masterpiece wherein a gay and 
beautiful damsel strolled arm-in-arm between two 
sulking swains, all three garbed after the fashion 
of the time of that Hanoverian Profligate George 
the Fourth. It was, I remember, called “Two 
strings to her bow,” or some such appropriate title, 
and at the time caused much interest. The trio ad¬ 
vancing up the street was also creating much inter¬ 
est. The two wing figures, lending a friendly arm, 
were two large complacent policemen. Between 
them was the bereaved mother. 

Horrified as I was, a brief glance shewed that the 
vine leaves were in her hair. Her perennial mauve 
bonnet had slipped its moorings and gapped at an 
odd unbecoming angle. She still wore her mantle 
as of yore, but it was sadly disarranged where the 
bobbies had grabbed her arms. She still curtseyed, 
but the old-fashioned grace was lacking—her genu¬ 
flexions seemed to be involuntary. Her voice was 
uplifted in song, but ’twas not the haunting music 
of “Swanee River.” In an astonishing high key, 
she carolled ribaldly concerning the home-coming 
of one Mackay. Anon she skirled as though she 
were the whole reel of Tulloch itself. At intervals 
she aimed kicks at her supporters, while playfully 
121 


A TRAGEDY 


accusing both impartially of having amorous de¬ 
signs on her fair self. 

I felt impelled to interfere. Clearly the shock 
had unhinged the poor creature’s mind. As I hesi¬ 
tated, two small boys trotted past, one shouting 
gleefully to the other “C’way, Hughie! There’s 
auld mither Maclarty’s been lifted again.” * 

That again made me pause. Could we all have 
made some ghastly mistake? In any case I must 
hold on my errand—the undertaker’s men would 
shortly arrive and I had to be there to meet them. I 
continued my way down the streets to where, over an 
old bend or archway, I found the number of Mrs. 
Maclarty’s domicile. At the entrance a group of 
women in striped petticoats, with picturesque tar¬ 
tan shawls over their bare heads, looked with 
evident satisfaction at the departing procession, 
and discussed the proceedings with gusto. 

I felt disgusted at the turn things had taken, and 
felt inclined to reprove Mrs. Maclarty’s neigh¬ 
bours for their heartlessness, with the corpse of 
her child only a few yards away. But I refrained 
and passed in under the archway. In truth I lacked 

* For the benefit of my southern readers, this colloquialism 
may be translated thus: “Come with me (with a view to in¬ 
spection) little Hugh. Old Mrs. Maclarty has again been taken 
into custody by the police.” 


122 


A TRAGEDY 


the courage. These grim-looking ladies in the 
shawls did not in the least resemble the blowsy 
sloppy type who appears periodically in Willesden 
police court, proudly exhibiting a face like a 
Spitzbergen sunset as a token of affection from her 
"old dear.” 

I found myself in a small asphalted courtyard, 
surrounded by a huddle of doors and windows. In 
a comer a lean and scabious cat chewed without 
much enthusiasm at a cod’s head. The stench of 
stale cabbage, cats and variegated offal was unbe¬ 
lievable. I smoked vigorously and considered the 
doors. Some were open, others were shut, but 
there was no outward sign as to who lived in them. 
No living creature appeared and for a moment the 
listless, philosophic cat and I had the place to 
ourselves. 

Then the women in the shawls began to drift 
back from the street entrance, the "close-mooth” 
they call it thereabouts, vociferously discussing the 
pleasant interlude in the day’s monotony. Appar¬ 
ently Bacchante with the two strings to her bow 
had passed out of sight. 

I asked the nearest of the group, a sonsy wench 
with a baby tucked into her shawl, which might be 
the abode of Mrs. Maclarty. "That’s it,” she re- 
123 


A TRAGEDY 


plied pointing, as she slacked off her shawl, then 
with a hoist of her shoulder swept it more closely 
round the infant. “But she’s no there, if it’s her 
ye’re seekin’. Did ye no’ meet her up the road?” 
I nodded my head, I felt that speech seemed inade¬ 
quate. “She got a registered letter this morning. 
I seen the postman gie it till her. She clapped on 
her bunnit the meenit she got it, an’ she’s been 
playin’ fair hell’s delight ever since, the auld hoor! 
She’s well oot o’ the road.” 

“But her boy—the little boy who died?” I asked. 

Gradually, for there were never less than three 
speaking at once; sometimes it seemed as if all 
were speaking together, the story of Mrs. Maclarty 
the arch-deceiver was disentangled. As I gathered 
the drift of the women’s comments I swiftly desig¬ 
nated myself as the undertaker’s man. It seemed 
to be quite a possibility that, as the representative 
of a syndicate of well-meaning, if foolish philan¬ 
thropists who had supported the impostor in alco¬ 
holic indulgence, while her neighbours slaved, they 
might have assaulted me. Their surroundings may 
have been unhygienic but they and their bairns 
looked uncommonly sturdy and healthy. 

There were no young Maclartys. 

“Married! Her!” one shouted at me amidst the 
124 


A TRAGEDY 


scornful laughter of the others. “She had nae 
mair respect for hersel’, yon wumman, than a she- 
cat in a back-green!” 

Her touching story was sheer falulation. Her 
early life; the little children; their upgrowing; 
their progress at day schools and at Sunday 
schools; their simple joys and innocent little ways 
—all, all was one well-sustained myth. 

Yet one must confess she was an artist. She had 
done it—and us—well. But, and I grew hot at the 
further humiliation that lay before me, I had still 
to interview my friend of the voce simpatico . 
Mumbling something about hurrying to catch “my 
mate” I left my beauty chorus. 

Prepare to meet thy undertaker. 

Many years ago, when the Highland Railway 
was first opened to traffic, and the natives had not 
yet grasped the rigid significance of scheduled 
time, a train drew up at a small station on the 
Highland line. It was little more than a platform 
and a shed. Outside, stood a hairy-heeled, dun- 
coloured horse yoked to what might have been a 
hearse. Two or three dozen men stood about in 
quaint-looking silk hats and black clothes showing 
marks of much folding. It was a depressing, 
drizzling day, and beyond the fields behind the 
125 


A TRAGEDY 

station, the ragged edges of the mist hung low on 
the nearby hills. 

One solitary passenger alighted and walked back 
to the guard’s van to retrieve his luggage. There 
he found the station-master and two men in black 
arguing dejectedly with the guard. The train 
chugged out of the station and jerked itself into 
the obscurity of the mizzle. The two natives 
passed out through the wicket. The station-master 
pushed his peaked cap to one side and scratched 
his head, then turned to the baggage of the solitary 
traveller, who asked: “Is that a funeral?” 

“Well,” answered the station-master slowly, 
“you could hardly call it a funeral. You see— 
the corp has missed the train!” 


126 


ABSOLUTELY 











ABSOLUTELY 


[With apologies to the authors of “The Meaning of 
Meaning”] 

Pilate 8a/ith unto him, what is truth? 

—St. John 

I T is the frequent fate of apostles of any new 
doctrine, necessitating or even suggestive of 
work and self-sacrifice, to be received with 
dead cats, out-of-date eggs—and sometimes worse 
has happened. Not infrequently have they been 
“put to death,” by way of encouraging others. 
But always, to begin with, the crowds will listen. 
It is only when the hat comes round, or embryo 
converts are invited to follow, that the mob melts 
away. 

When that patient and persistent man Job asked 
of Tophar the Naamathite and his friends that they 
would suffer him to speak, they might mock him 
later, his normal penetration deserted him. That 
is what his good friends had come to enjoy: 
friends frequently are like that. 

129 


ABSOLUTELY 


It is only possible to succeed if you will offer 
the crowd something for nothing. Then they will 
make you a king or at least prime minister. 

Unfortunately for the bearers of glad tidings 
there is no School for Fervents. When they re¬ 
ceive the “call,” and drop suddenly the task in 
hand, they emerge from the cloister, the fish-shop 
or, although less frequently, the stock-exchange, 
armed only with the shining light of the faith with¬ 
in them. It seems a poor sort of lever. 

Usually they have ample leisure later to reflect 
that they may have heard the wrong noise. 

So Neil Carruthers created no fresh precedent, 
although he is now mercifully spared the ignominy 
of living out the years with his failure. 

A Fellow at Oxford, he was at one time moder¬ 
ately happy in his work, and ecstatically happy in 
his hobbies. Most Fellows have decided and often 
freakish hobbies, in which their enthusiasm gets full 
play. Carruthers’ intellectual “side-line” was the 
Purity of the English Language. 

Fie was becoming alarmed about it. He saw or 
felt that the English language was drifting into a 
condition where the meaning given to anything had 
no meaning. His insistence was that meaning 
should not be meaningless. Every day he seemed 
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to find more people talking and saying nothing. 
From being a hobby it became his obsession. In¬ 
stead of becoming a goal it was fast becoming a 
grievance, and he latterly suffered extremely from 
inability to comprehend why apparently intelli¬ 
gent educated people could not understand each 
other while the uneducated masses seemed to get 
on very well. 

It appeared to him that ability to make oneself 
understood ran in inverse ratio to the degree of 
education. 

He was a familiar figure in Oxford. That Ox¬ 
ford of learning, which seems unable to change. 
A tobacconist in the High may go out of business 
through the vagaries of fashion, leaving him with 
an unsalable stock of “Straight grains”; petrol 
may displace the old familiar cab, but scholastic 
Oxford defies time itself. 

Rather tall and bony, he walked quickly in a 
manner suggesting that no part of his body had 
any connection with any other, unless accidental. 
His age was a conundrum, but we may set him down 
as being about fifty when the War began. He was 
one of that sort of people who always seemed to 
have looked the same and always would. He be¬ 
longed to the no-hat brigade, and allowed his heavy 
131 


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thatch of coarse iron-grey hair to grow long. It 
mingled with a bunch of matted beard which began 
at the back of his neck and worked its way forward 
to his eyebrows. His moustache would have made 
a walrus blush. 

He favoured flannel shirts of oatmeal colour, 
with a collar attached. Mixed up with his whis¬ 
kers, ends of a tie of sorts occasionally appeared. 
Frequently he wore none. He affected a sartorial 
masterpiece known as a norfolk jacket, of grey 
tweed with an odour so pungent that it hummed 
like the whole island of Harris. His trousers of 
the same shaggy material were always turned up 
at varying lengths, exhibiting a generous amount of 
thick rumpled grey sock dropping over heavy 
greased boots, from both of which a length of 
leather lace always trailed. 

He stooped as he hurried along, but with lifted 
chin, he peered out over the heads of people with 
two bright eyes behind thick spectacles. 

Outside of his work and his grievance, his only 
physical hobby was walking and mountaineering. 
To attend to the latter he annually fared abroad 
in the long vac, usually to Switzerland. To keep 
himself fit for the Alpine performances, he made 
himself a nuisance locally by climbing over out- 
132 


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houses and walls. He would occasionally drop 
into a water-butt when endeavoring to shin up a 
water-pipe. But no untoward happening could ever 
deter him, and he was utterly incapable of realis¬ 
ing that he could conceivably annoy anyone. He 
generally acted on impulse. 

To the great and abiding joy of undergraduate 
life, the rash gentleman occasionally found him¬ 
self spreadeagled on the wall of a house, so fixed 
that he would either have to take his toes off the 
top of a window and his fingers from a rone pipe 
and drop, or hang on in acute discomfort till some¬ 
one fetched a ladder—unless something gave way: 
which frequently happened. As recent psycho¬ 
analytical research indicates that sufficient concen¬ 
tration of will power can achieve anything, such 
catastrophes may be set down to the presence of 
a mass of delighted undergraduates. From these 
occurrences, he came to be nicknamed the Borneo 
Spider, with adjectival variations. 

The outbreak of the War found him in the 
Dolomites. 

He was almost forcibly removed by some Eng¬ 
lish and American tourists and brought home 
through Italy and France. He explained volubly 
that war was impossible amongst civilised peoples 
133 


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if they would only take the trouble to try to under¬ 
stand each other. 

He desired to remain to explain this to the bel¬ 
ligerents. 

At home he endeavoured without avail to give 
expression to his views, then, having sufficient 
sense to see that the middle of a fight is not the 
time to stop to argue, he threw himself whole¬ 
heartedly into war work. He laboured conscien¬ 
tiously to the last in a munition factory, bottling his 
zeal for reform. 

He cherished the conviction that the whole 
ghastly business was due to a lack of clarity in 
understanding. The ardour of the reformer was 
working within him, and he felt that he could not 
return to his work at Oxford until he had at least 
tried to put it right. 

What appeared to him to be wrong was that 
nothing had any definite meaning. He found that 
verbally things were infinitely worse than before 
the war. Everybody still talked, made speeches 
or wrote and said nothing. 

He looked hopefully to where the wise ones of 
the earth had assembled like locusts to settle in 
conference, all things for all men for all time. 

They were at least giving themselves something 
134 


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of a chance. They were not like a struggling 
chemist on the verge of a discovery, lacking even 
the match to light his Bunsen burner. There, with 
their wisdom and their women, with power, time, 
money, secretaries, photographers and more sec¬ 
retaries, they sat and talked, and talked and talked. 

Carruthers examined it microscopically, for he 
was desperately in earnest, but he could find noth¬ 
ing happening. Nothing at all. Everyone talked. 
They strung words together and invented catch 
phrases to be cabled home to distract the nations 
of the earth and divert their attention. Anon they 
squabbled like fishwives. Still nothing happened 
except more catch phrases. 

Whilst waiting for something to really happen 
abroad, he turned his attention to affairs at home. 

He found in the first place that the whole country 
was living in a growing spate of the word “abso¬ 
lutely.” Young and old, rich and poor, used it to 
qualify everything. In fashionable ballrooms, and 
in unfashionable hostelries it had become uni¬ 
versal. It had even penetrated as far north as 
Aiberrdeen, where, costing nothing it was most 
popular. 

Carruthers began by writing a letter to a leading 
morning newspaper, drawing attention to the pain- 
135 


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ful fact, and demonstrated that unless it were the 
age of twenty-one in both sexes, nothing in this 
world could possibly be absolute. Unfortunately 
it was an intelligent letter and the editor published 
it. Carruthers straightway took rooms in Blooms¬ 
bury and considered his next move. The tow had 
caught fire. 

Left to himself he might have been content to 
attack by writing. In an evil moment, someone 
happened to mention the House of Commons. 
Then Carruthers recalled that a Parliament existed, 
and he decided to attend. He thought it would be 
the very place to ventilate a grievance. He re¬ 
called Wilderbury who had been at school with 
him. Wilderbury had got in at the last election, 
and Carruthers went off to look him up in the 
House. He found him. 

Now, to the right of the entrance, almost on the 
floor of the House, there exists a small pew where 
underlings occasionally sit and wait with papers 
for the guidance of certain of the nation’s guard¬ 
ians who expect to be asked questions on subjects 
of which they know nothing. Into this Wilderbury, 
who was genuinely pleased to see his old friend, 
passed Carruthers, who sat amazed. The govern¬ 
ment of the country he had taken for granted. 
Parliamentary debate had never come within his 
136 


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purview. He listened with horror to the turgid 
incoherency of the lesser lights, and the fluent in¬ 
sincerity of the others. 

Finally, he could stand no more of it. Indif¬ 
ferent to his surroundings, he rose to his feet—it 
has been explained that he was prone to act on 
impulse—and called upon a front bencher to make 
intelligible a statement he had just made. Getting 
no reply, and mistaking the silence which followed, 
he launched forth into an explanation of why he 
wanted an explanation. Although he kept the fact 
to himself, the Deputy Speaker who happened to 
be in the Chair, was just the least bit short-sighted, 
and did not at first realise this was not a Member. 
The majority of the Members were still too bewil¬ 
dered over wondering how on earth they had got 
there themselves to bother about other people’s 
troubles, so Neil Carruthers who talked as he 
walked, at a terrific pace, had quite a minute of 
it before they suppressed him and led him away. 

He apologised at large and went out quietly. He 
felt very happy, and strangely moved. 

A bright newspaper man followed him home and 
interviewed him. He called the next morning with 
a copy of his paper. He had worked it up into a 
column, headed “Neil Desperandum.” 

The public appetite was a little jaded: there was 
137 


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a lull just then in the efforts of the Conference 
circus, and the alert scribe, Penny Macallister by 
name, thought he could make something of Carru- 
thers. Macallister had not the remotest real in¬ 
terest in the purity of the language, nor was he 
troubled over the confusion of meaning. Indeed 
had he thought deeply about it, he would probably 
have decided that it all suited his tribe admirably. 
But he had been just long enough in Fleet Street 
to remember the “What is Whisky” stir, and he ex¬ 
plained the value of publicity and the meaning of 
propaganda to the unsophisticated zealot. Before 
he left him, he had got Carruthers fairly on the 
rails. 

It is astonishing what real enthusiasm can do 
when it sets to work. Under Penny Macallister’s 
prompting Carruthers addressed a meeting in Tra¬ 
falgar Square, where he launched the phrase “The 
Inflated Currency of Words.” It was of course 
Macallister’s coining, and that worthy worked it 
hard while he thought it would last. Then he sent 
Carruthers back to the House of Commons in an 
endeavour to induce his friend Wilderbury to in¬ 
troduce a Private Member’s Bill on the subject. 
He did his best to give Carruthers a plausible 
explanation but it was quite unnecessary. The 
138 


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holy fire of the reformer was well alight, and all 
that Carruthers required was someone to direct 
him. 

Carruthers saw Wilderbury, who was voluble 
and unpleasant. He refused to listen to Carruthers 
who was annoyed: he had quite a lot to say. Un¬ 
fortunately Wilderbury used the word ‘‘absolute¬ 
ly” about half-a-dozen times in his peroration. 
Carruthers became furious and latterly violent 
when Wilderbury would not listen to him. Finally 
he was ejected. 

The conscienceless Macallister rubbed his hands 
and made an indignant column out of it. Then he 
suggested Downing Street. 

He managed to send Carruthers there with an in¬ 
troduction to some minor secretary. The unctuous 
secretary, with greater cunning than Wilderbury 
M. P., promised that the matter would be attended 
to, and presented Carruthers with a cigar. Carru¬ 
thers was a non-smoker, so he waved the cigar and 
the promise aside. He rapidly expounded his 
views on the liberty of the subject—it has been 
explained that he was a fast speaker—and de¬ 
manded an interview with someone higher up. The 
secretary moved towards the door, and assured 
Carruthers that such a thing was “absolutely im- 
139 


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possible.” There was quite a cheerful scene and 
Carruthers was arrested. 

This was almost more than Macallister had 
hoped for. He accompanied the fervent to the 
police station and arranged his bail. He thought 
he might get two columns out of it. He had found 
“The Inflated Currency of Words” going well and 
his editor was delighted. 

Macallister arrived in Bloomsbury with a taxi 
early the following morning and found, as he ex¬ 
pected, that Carruthers had forgotten all about his 
appointment at the Police Court. He was a shrewd 
observer was Macallister. 

Carruthers had never been in a police court be¬ 
fore, and the smell in the corridors upset him. He 
was a healthy man with a fondness for fresh air. 
When his name was called, pushed on by Mac¬ 
allister, he found himself in what seemed to him 
to resemble an empty glass tank in an aquarium, 
with fossils, and fungoid growths on the bottom, 
which occasionally moved up and down like float¬ 
ing seaweed. It smelt of mould, cobwebs and 
frowsty clothes. A haze seemed to float in the dim 
light as if the tank had been filled with a brown 
vapour which was just clearing off*. 

He was guided into a box by a policeman. On 
140 


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his left, a benign old gentleman with silvery hair 
was writing scratchily with a squeaking quill. He 
seemed to Carruthers to be the most important per¬ 
son, so he at once addressed him. 

“Don’t you think, sir, we might have the win¬ 
dows open: this stuffiness must be most unhealthy.” 

The court rustled as a cornfield is moved by a 
passing puff of wind, while horrified voices mur¬ 
mured “sh-h-h.” The magistrate bent his head, 
and over his glasses gazed blandly at Carruthers, 
then resumed his scratching. 

Ignoring a vermain person below, who appeared 
to be pressing him to accept a small book, Car¬ 
ruthers turned for enlightenment to the policeman 
beside him. He was a tall, fresh-coloured, hand¬ 
some man. Carruthers had never seen a police¬ 
man without a helmet before, and it suddenly 
struck him that a police helmet is extremely ugly. 
Before he could speak, the constable directed his 
attention to the person with the book. 

It was quickly over and Carruthers got off with 
an admonition. His expostulations and earnest re¬ 
quests for enlightenment gave Macallister nearly 
half a page. When he was solemnly threatened 
with commitment for contempt of court, he almost 
pathetically, but without result, asked if someone 
141 


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would explain what contempt of court meant. He 
quite upset the magistrate by frequently attempting 
to address the people in the body of the court. He 
had only a vague idea of what it all meant, and 
may have fancied that they were a jury. Several 
times he turned to the friendly policeman for in¬ 
formation. He seemed to Carruthers to be the only 
helpful person in the tank. 

“It is absolute nonsense to suggest that igno¬ 
rance of the Law can be taken as an excuse,” sen- 
tentiously remarked the magistrate, during a 
pause in his scratching. Carruthers groaned. 

“Then why not make the Law intelligible?” he 
asked, whereupon a stout man in court, who looked 
like a pork-butcher with a grievance, ejaculated 
“ ’ear, ’ear,” and was at once hustled out. 

The police court incident for the moment turned 
his reforming zeal to the tyranny of the Law. 

Here he found a wide field. The lamentable 
state of the language, the apparent impossibility 
of expecting clarity of expression, was, he con¬ 
sidered, due to confused thinking. It was largely, 
if not entirely carelessness. It might be remedied 
in time. In the machinations of the Law he seemed 
to see something sinister. It had a deliberate look. 

He hastened to his impresario Macallister, but, 
142 


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for the moment, that gentleman would have none 
of him. Well had Penny Macallister learned that 
the essence of modem journalism is the constant 
novelty. He knew the meaning of his weekly en¬ 
velope, and that was meaning enough for him. Be¬ 
sides, the latest Great European Conference was 
drawing to a close and not one of the performers 
had yet given cause for a real good scandal. 
Journalistically speaking, it was most discourag¬ 
ing, and Macallister was on the point of crossing 
over to the Continent to see if nothing could be 
done while yet there was time. 

Carruthers had come so much to lean on Mac¬ 
allister, and to move at his bidding, that he felt 
quite lost without him. Just at that moment, an 
accumulation of income-tax papers was forwarded 
to him from his old address at Oxford. As he 
ploughed through them, it was borne in upon him 
that the whole thing had been deliberately ar¬ 
ranged so that no one could possibly understand it. 
It must be put right and at once. 

It was most unfortunate that Macallister was 
away but he remembered Prowse—old “Stoker” 
Prowse who had been at Corpus with him, and there 
had earned his nickname by his gastronomical 
feats. Prowse, he recalled, was now a prosperous 
143 


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solicitor in the City. He had no idea where, but 
he knew where the City was and someone, some 
policeman, would tell him. 

Carruthers had come to have a childlike, al¬ 
though quite justifiable, faith in the London police¬ 
man. He was like the old woman who had walked 
in from the country to visit a son (“a well-daein’ 
lad, mind ye”) in Glasgow. Meeting a constable 
on the outskirts of the city she inquired: “Is this 
Glasgow?” On receiving the assurance that it was, 
she hopefully asked: “Is oor Donald in?” 

He would start with his uniformed friends about 
St. Paul’s, or perhaps a little further on, and they 
would pass him along the one to the other, till he 
would be delivered at Prowse’s office somewhere, 
so he swung off, hatless, and still clad as in his 
Oxford days, indifferent to the amused stares of 
the people he encountered. The Londoner is 
reasonably indifferent to oddities, but not entirely. 

After much wandering he found Prowse. Each 
was of course shocked at the change in the other, 
as men are apt to be after twenty-five years, but 
each was quite recognisable. Carruthers wasted 
no time over sentiment. He cut short Prowse’s 
jovial personalities and started his machine-gun 
hail of questions and grievances. 

144 


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He found Prowse talking an extraordinary jar¬ 
gon. This was the Law. He had never conceived 
anything so dreadful. It was worse than the 
speeches in the House of Commons. After nearly 
an hour of it—for Prowse, fat and genial, was de¬ 
lighted to see his old friend, although distressed 
at his state of mind—Neil Carruthers crept out be¬ 
wildered, and wondered what Sisyphus felt. 

He took to frequenting the Law Courts to glean 
enlightenment. His bewilderment increased. It 
seemed to him that at every point, every law re¬ 
quired half a dozen weighty interpretations, rul¬ 
ings and what not, each producing such confusion, 
that the last state was merely an intensification of 
the first. 

Then he had a practical lesson. His funds were 
running low, so he decided to realise his sole pos¬ 
session, a property in the country. A neighbour 
had long desired it, so it looked like a simple pro¬ 
ceeding. He wrote to the prospective buyer, and 
received a lengthy, unintelligible communication 
from his lawyer in Exeter. He sought Prowse, and 
realised that no one may move hand or foot with¬ 
out invoking a lawyer, if only to have the other 
lawyer’s English interpreted. The good-natured 
Prowse told him to leave it all to him, but no such 
145 


ABSOLUTELY 


thing. Carruthers had gone off the line after the 
legal hare, and he meant to follow it. He was 
asked for his titles and had that explained. 

“But the property is mine,” he said. “I own it. 
No one questions it. It was my father’s and grand¬ 
father’s.” 

Prowse tried to explain all the ramifications and 
the reason therefor, but Carruthers found it in¬ 
credible; like the old lady who was shown a giraffe 
at the Zoo, and said that she simply did not be¬ 
lieve it. 

It could only be remedied by Law, and yet the 
Law had apparently deliberately created it all. He 
spent a night thinking about it, and returned next 
day to see Prowse. He had no appointment, but in 
mundane matters he had the mind of an infant. 
Prowse saw him, and listened with mingled amuse¬ 
ment, and apprehension for his friend’s mind. 

“My dear old fellow,” he said at last, “you’re 
absolutely (Carruthers winced but he was getting 
accustomed to it) tilting at windmills. Law 
exists so that we lawyers may live: that’s why there 
are so many of us in the House.” 

That set Carruthers off at a fresh tangent. He 
promptly hurried as fast as his long legs—he al¬ 
ways walked—would take him to the House of 
146 


ABSOLUTELY 


Commons. He desired Wilderbury, M. P. This 
may seem astonishing hut Carruthers had the heart 
of a child and never imagined that he could pos¬ 
sibly offend anybody. He was indifferent to every¬ 
thing but the object in view. He was disappointed 
at Westminster: Wilderbury, M. P., lay low and 
swiftly circulated a description of Carruthers 
amongst the custodians, with hints as to his sanity, 
and felt safer. 

Carruthers again hunted up Penny Macallister 
and found him returned and glad to see him. He 
had developed quite a fondness for Carruthers— 
“Genius gone Astray” he called him—and also, he 
was in a better humour. At that latest Continental 
Conference one of the performers had been seen 
more than once in the company of a distinctly 
doubtful-looking person and Macallister hoped that 
something might be made of it. He was at a loss 
to know what to set Carruthers after. He feared 
that “The Inflated Currency of Words” was played 
out, but something might be made of the other, so 
he advised Carruthers to write a stinging pamphlet 
on “The Necessity for the Immediate Cheapening 
and Simplification of English Law” and have it 
printed in thousands, and distribute it himself out¬ 
side the House of Commons, the Law Courts and 
147 


ABSOLUTELY 


various Police Courts. He further suggested that 
he should wear sandwich boards with “The Legal 
Trade Union” on one side, and “The Tyranny of 
the Law” on the other. He recommended a printer 
and Carruthers was delighted. 

Macallister promised himself a column if Car¬ 
ruthers were run in. It is to be feared that Mac¬ 
allister is a bad man, but when he reads this he 
will know that evildoers cannot move unobserved. 

Some weeks after, a policeman on duty near 
the House of Commons noticed a tall gentleman, 
whose silk hat, umbrella, spats and smirk labelled 
him “Member,” stop suddenly when approaching 
the Members’ entrance from Westminster Street, 
then, turning so quickly that he stumbled, he came 
running back to the corner round which he swung 
and paused to gaze back apprehensively. It looked 
an absurd performance. Possibly, the worldly- 
wise constable reflected, the gentleman had spotted 
something blown in from St. John’s Wood, that 
he would just as soon not be seen speaking to. 

It was not so. It was merely the wretched Wil- 
derbury, M. P., who, just in time, had caught sight 
of Carruthers inside his sandwich boards. He 
made a wide detour back, by Westminster Street, 
round the Abbey, through Dean’s Yard, and 
148 


ABSOLUTELY 


sneaked in by the public entrance. He was very 
hot and exceedingly annoyed. At his almost fran¬ 
tic request, a police sergeant dealt with Carruthers 
and persuaded him to move on. Carruthers did so 
cheerfully, more than ever convinced that the Lon¬ 
don Police are the most intelligent and humane of 
the human race. 

For days he wandered about between his boards, 
handing out pamphlets. But his restless spirit 
chafed at the passive role. He felt he must act, 
and the old fervour working, he left his boards 
with a friendly youth at a book-stall—extreme 
friendliness is the outstanding characteristic of all 
cockneys. 

Like a homing pigeon he unconsciously followed 
the line of his first visit to a court of law. He 
found himself in the same court-room and felt like 
Rip van Winkle. Nothing seemed changed. The 
same brown atmosphere, the same variety of stuffy 
smells. The same magistrate scratching with, 
doubtless, the same quill. The same malodourous 
people: even the same policeman. Carruthers 
pushed forward to the well of the court and raised 
his voice. He was fined two guineas and costs, 
which was paid by one of Prowse’s clerks who had 
seen him enter, and had followed him. Prowse be- 
149 


ABSOLUTELY 


gan to have serious misgivings about his friend’s 
mind. 

Carruthers retired to his den in Bloomsbury, and 
returned to a consideration of the world-wide con¬ 
fusion being produced by the misuse of words. He 
found that after each conference things got worse. 
Each assembly apparently was called to emphasise 
fresh points of discord, and to arrange the date for 
the next: all to make the world safe for hypocrisy. 
By constant repetitions something came to be 
created out of nothing. As each fresh scheme for 
reparations or repayment of debts was condemned, 
it was promptly called something else and hailed 
as a success. All original debts and claims and 
partitions had been lost, snowed under by ava¬ 
lanches of meaningless words, and the wise ones of 
the nations gleefully called fresh conferences to 
invent new ones. A great physician abolished a 
disease by changing its name, and had more letters 
to follow his famous patronymic. 

Carruthers considered it all, then wrote an article 
on “The Affliction of Unsound Dogma.” 

Penny Macallister published it and then started 
him off after a fresh hare. It was America, Mac¬ 
allister explained, that was at the root of it all. 
Alexander the Great, he told Carruthers, was the 
150 


ABSOLUTELY 


American spirit of that age. The cutting of the 
Gordian knot proved it. He admitted that Alex¬ 
ander was practically a professional fighter but 
so, he postulated, is the modern American, and al¬ 
though he uses the weapons of commerce, he has 
the same intolerance of hindrance, and refuses to 
be hampered by archaic phraseology. Like Alex¬ 
ander, he takes the quickest road. In short, Mac- 
allister concluded, your modem American spends 
his days cutting Gordian knots. 

Carruthers could not comprehend. He recalled 
an American at Oxford: a Rhodes scholar. An ex¬ 
cellent fellow, not only good at games, but most 
intelligent, who spoke like any ordinary educated 
person. 

Macallister explained that he meant the Amer¬ 
ican business man, and took him to the Hotel Cecil 
where he introduced him to many. He can do these 
things, can Macallister. 

The Americans were delighted with Carruthers, 
who addressed them fluently. They pressed un¬ 
holy mixed drinks on him. They slapped him 
boisterously on the back, and assured him that he 
was “absolutely the greatest thing ever.” Be¬ 
wildered, angry, yet fascinated, Carruthers sat lis¬ 
tening to their crisp, direct, staccato speech, while 
151 


ABSOLUTELY 


like jugglers they threw about men and things, 
freights and exchanges, crops and shortages. But 
he could not repress his indignation at their treat¬ 
ment of the language he revered. In his usual 
naive manner he made them quite a speech, abus¬ 
ing them roundly for their linguistic crimes, then, 
the cocktails working, Macallister took him away. 

The Americans were enchanted and cheered him 
till the smoking-room rang. They implored Mac¬ 
allister to bring him back. They wanted to give 
Carruthers a dinner. 

Next morning, Carruthers felt, besides other 
things, that he had at last found the key to the root 
of the trouble. 

With Macallister’s assistance he gathered all the 
best American periodicals available. He made a 
careful study of them and found that the writing 
was clear, dignified and forceful, as the occasion 
demanded and the form in general was most ex¬ 
cellent. He was puzzled. Then he started to read 
through the advertisements and nearly committed 
suicide. When he was sufficiently recovered, he 
wrote an article which can only be described as 
rabid, on “The Blight of Commercialism and Its 
Effect on the English Language.” Despite its fury 
and obvious bias, it was admirable and Macallister 
152 


ABSOLUTELY 


published it. He suggested to Carruthers that he 
ought to go on a lecturing tour, here and in the 
United States. He gave him the name of a person 
who arranged such matters. Carruthers wrote im¬ 
mediately and received a reply expressing regret 
but informing him that in the agent’s opinion it 
was “absolutely impossible” to interest audiences 
in such a theme. Carruthers nearly wept. 

Then he made the alarming discovery that his 
money was nearly finished. 

He rushed off to Prowse who suggested journal¬ 
ism but Carruthers could only harp on one string 
and even with Macallister’s help it soon died away. 

Macallister at that moment had just awakened 
to the advertising value of porcography and was 
deeply engrossed in endeavouring to reach the 
heart of the public through a most fascinating 
paternity case, but he found time to suggest that 
the only thing left for Carruthers to do was to write 
a book. Carruthers jumped at the idea and hur¬ 
ried along the Embankment and Victoria Street 
towards Prowse’s office to consult him as to ways 
and means. The good-natured Prowse at once of¬ 
fered him a loan but Carruthers’ pride revolted. 
He wanted work: any quiet job that required little 
brain effort: anything mechanical so that he could 
153 


ABSOLUTELY 


have peace to think it all out—to dwell with his 
theme, which his nights would be devoted to writ¬ 
ing. His needs were small and he hoped he might 
yet save the language of the English-speaking 
world. 

So the excellent Prowse bestirred himself and 
ultimately found Carruthers an ideal billet as lift¬ 
man in a spacious quiet building in Kingsway. 
Carruthers was enchanted. He took over his com¬ 
mand with the enthusiasm of a child for a new toy. 

He was early at the building on his first morn¬ 
ing, and after many preliminary runs—for he was 
really enjoying himself—he simmered down and 
waited for his first client. He felt uplifted: he 
could feel that the day was at hand when the purity 
of the English language would be restored. 

His first client appeared. 

He was a smart Yankee drummer and he passed 
briskly through the entrance hall. He had a large, 
unlit, green cigar in a comer of his firm mouth, 
and a no-dam-nonsense expression on his smooth, 
plump, clean-shaven face. He stepped into the 
lift. 

“Good morning,” said Carruthers pleasantly. 

The drummer glanced at him suspiciously. He 
was not accustomed to civility from liftmen. 

154 


ABSOLUTELY 


“At which floor do you wish to alight?” asked 
Carruthers as he gently closed the gate. 

“Shoot me four” said the drummer. 

Carruthers gasped: then with an inarticulate 
animal-like cry he wrenched off the lever and 
sprang at the ambassador of commerce. 

“Detained during His Majesty’s pleasure,” they 
called it, and the Superintendent at Crinklewood 
Asylum says that Neil Carruthers is one of his ex¬ 
emplary inmates. He spends all his time peace¬ 
fully addressing space on the meaning of the word 
“absolutely” as applied to everything and nothing. 

He has only broken out once. 

The reason for his outbreak was that one day 
at dinner-time, he had quite inadvertently been 
placed opposite the service lift. 


155 













CULOT INFERNAL 













CULOT INFERNAL 


My boy, you may take it from me, 

That of all the afflictions accurst 
With which a man’s saddled 
And hampered and addled 
A diffident nature’s the worst. 

—W. S. Gilbert 

W E are told that there are only two ways 
of making money. One of them is by 
sheer nine-to-six industry and the 
other by knowledge—the knowledge that comes 
through having friends who whisper to let you 
know when the moment is propitious to step in and, 
more important still, the exact moment to step out. 

Having stated these profound truths, let me now 
present for your consideration Anton Duprez, 
native of Auvergne but quite a Parisian, having 
lived in Paris nearly all his life. He is short, 
stoutish and, let us call it, a little over middle age. 
We must not be too exigent, for he feels, the good 
Anton, that the years of life ahead are all too short 
to enjoy the good things to be found in it and tries 
to cheat the Three Sisters by affecting a sprightly 
youthfulness. 


159 


CULOT INFERNAL 


Now Monsieur Duprez could have told you that 
there is still another way of making money, al¬ 
though what precisely it is might puzzle him to ex¬ 
plain. Bom comparatively poor, beyond a hazard 
he is wealthy to-day. It was not through slaving 
at a desk from nine till six —sale metier (Tun serf. 
Nor was it from knowledge. Yet, there it is and 
there he is as you see him this April morning pass¬ 
ing down from his luxurious villa in the western 
outskirts of Nice. In a few minutes he will reach 
the end of the promenade. He is on his way to 
offer himself his daily aperitif and being, as has 
been delicately hinted, inclined to embonpoint, he 
is able by much walking and seasonal visits to 
Vichy and Evian to limit this tendency to a pleas¬ 
ing plumpness. Still alert, he wears his hat with a 
knowing tilt and although his narrow, low-heeled 
yellow boots look as if made of paper and his al¬ 
paca suit would bring Savile Row out with guns, 
yet his diamond scarf pin, inserted sufficiently low 
not to be covered by his pointed beard, and the 
diamond shooting sparks from its bed in the plump 
little finger of his left hand, with which he twists 
his moustache so that all may benefit, would be 
cheap at fifteen thousand francs the pair, even if 
the bottom fell out of every exchange in Europe. 

160 


CULOT INFERNAL 


With right hand in his jacket pocket holding the 
silver-headed cane upright at his shoulder, he does 
his best to square his back and turns his toes out as 
he hums a catchy air. 

Yes, the world has gone very well with Anton 
since that amazing day when Fate in one crowded 
hour used him as a shuttle, finally slugging him 
hard on the machoire with a sickening right cross, 
and straightened him with a left swing as he fell; 
then, steadying him, set him in his comer and 
handed him the prize while still too dazed to real¬ 
ise his good fortune. 

And who, think you, is this interesting per¬ 
sonage? Whence his vast wealth and it is vast, 
parole d’auteur. Has he nothing beyond that to 
justify this appearance? Ma foi, yes! You, Sir, 
as a mere man, may not be interested—you may 
justifiably hate him when you know—but you. 
Madam, will experience a happy thrill of surprise 
for in him you see no other than the chief proprie¬ 
tor of the most famous fashion paper in the world. 
I return to you, Sir, in your ignorance—there is no 
need to explain to Madam—the magazine which 
revolutionised the creation of fashions and is the 
world’s arbiter of La Mode . 

By now he has reached his favourite cafe and 
161 


CULOT INFERNAL 

while we leave him with his aperitif you will learn 
his secret. 

The worship of the golden calf is the most potent 
mundane force to-day. It has swept the world like 
a plague. No other worship, no religious move¬ 
ment, ever matched its intensity as it sets false 
standards, inspiring unworthy ambitions, giving 
power to venal demagogues and infecting even the 
Chinaman,—that placid epitome of agelong con¬ 
tentment. In the sunny Italian compartimenti the 
carefree, happy peasant stirs uneasily as he has 
read to him a letter from his brother Giacomo, 
who emigrated to harvest on the River Plate, and 
who has found his way to New York, where he is 
now a capitalist with real money and many banana 
stalls. 

It is not likely that Paris would have escaped the 
plague infection and Georges Lafont, artist, and 
Hector Lequellec, journalist, both still in the early 
twenties, had long realised that whilst the pursuit 
of wealth may be a sordid aim, it was a mighty 
pleasant one. Fine raiment with good food and 
wine and the cheerful apartement meiible which 
they shared in the Rue Alboni, was to them a better 
game than emulating Rudolph and Marcel, while 
their lady friends would have smiled incredulously 
162 


CULOT INFERNAL 


and considered it pure viridian simplicity of Mimi 
to allow herself to die in a garret. Scorning the 
sloppy untidiness of Murger’s characters Lequellec 
wasted no time writing immortal odes to his lady’s 
eyebrows nor Lafont in going hungry in rags while 
he laboured at a portrait of his adored one which 
—when finished—would bring undying fame. 
Well content were they to follow Omar’s advice 
and, taking the cash wherever they could, to allow 
the credit to wander whither it cared. As smart 
as a confiding London tailor, who travelled twice a 
year to Paris, could turn them out, scattered race 
cards of Longchamps and Auteuil meetings shewed 
where they sought the inspiration which they subse¬ 
quently converted into coin. To spend a whole 
night over one bock in the Boul “Mich,” even with 
a fair if tousled head on your shoulder, although 
possibly picturesque, seemed to them common¬ 
place and lacking chic. Their tastes ran more to 
a starched skirt in the Rue Royale and romance in 
silk stockings. 

But it is seldom that the earthen dish long sur¬ 
vives the contact of brass vessels and the promising 
scheme on which they had toiled all summer hunt¬ 
ing gold-lined financiers, instead of coming home, 
looked like sinking and taking them down with it. 

163 


CULOT INFERNAL 


Their lunch was over and Georges Lafont, 
perched on the window-sill of the sitting-room, 
gazed preoccupied, through the clear, bright air 
across the roofs of Paris. Through the open win¬ 
dow floated the acrid smell of petrol and the faint 
hum of the distant, busy streets was pierced with 
the shrill cries of scurrying newsvendors. He 
toyed idly with an orange stick, for the finger nail 
in mourning was no longer fashionable in an artist. 
At the table in the middle of the room sat Hector 
Lequellec. Suddenly he banged the top with his 
hand, rose, crossed to his friend and, placing two 
fifty-centime pieces on the window-sill, said, 
“Georges, my friend, it is not yet time for the 
funeral face. See then, if by night I convert these 
two coins, which represent every sou I have in the 
world, into the relatively small but undoubtedly 
necessary capital for our venture, what then will 
you say?” 

Fast disappearing in France is the nineteenth 
century cheek-kissing and excitability. British 
phlegm with London clothes had become the cor¬ 
rect smart pose, so Georges merely shrugged his 
shoulders and waited. 

“My friend,” continued the other, “we have been 
hunting the wrong ground or is it that I should say 

164 


CULOT INFERNAL 


that we have hunted over the same ground too 
long? We have the energy but we lack the aim. 
If, by example, one shot elephants always in the 
same meadow, how long think you the elephants 
would last? It is to laugh.” 

“Oh, may you and your elephants die of thirst!” 
said Georges wearily. “My poor Hector, it is too 
serious. See, I have but one piece of two francs 
left me. All summer have we neglected our legit¬ 
imate work to try to launch this wonderful maga¬ 
zine which is to make revolution in the world of 
fashion designing and now as you know it, we find 
ourselves ruined. May I never sit again in La 
Rue’s but I have blistered my feet walking and my 
tongue talking and now you place elephants before 
me. You disgust me of you.” 

“That makes nothing and it is just that, my 
friend,” said Hector. “Our methods have been too 
stereotyped, too clichees . We explain, we ask and 
we receive—nothing. They all see but they lack 
the courage, so we must, as your American friends 
say, we must ‘bounce’ someone.” 

Lafont’s eyebrows nearly disappeared in his 
sleek black hair. “You propose . . . ?” he began 
slowly when Lequellec raised a hand. 

“Remain tranquil, Georges, the methods of 
165 


CULOT INFERNAL 


Claude Duval do not look at me. You jump too 
soon and you do not understand the American 
language. First, you must trust me. Next we must 
have old clothes: that, alas, is easy. I by example 
will disembarrass myself of a collar—you will 
wear a cravat. We now become poor artisans of 
a respectability.” Having effected the change and 
handed his mystified friend one of the fifty-centime 
pieces, the pair sneaked past the loge of the con¬ 
cierge —to have let him see them thus attired would 
have damned them forever. They then took a taxi, 
and told the man to drive to the other side of the 
river. “You, my dear Georges,” continued Hector 
as they entered, “will now gaze fixedly on the meter 
until your two francs are about to expire and then 
we descend. Meantime I shall expound.” 

Alighting in the Boulevard Montparnasse, they 
walked to a corner where they waited till they 
found a ’bus going to Les Gobelins, sufficiently 
crowded for their purpose. On entering the inside, 
they separated: Georges sitting by the door while 
the arch-plotter, passing up, seated himself at the 
farther end and, after cursing the government, en¬ 
tered into friendly converse with those round him. 
Ground bait is always useful: “preparing the 
street” he called it. In due course the conductor 
166 


CULOT INFERNAL 


moved along collecting fares. He reached Hector, 
who ignored him. On his repeating his request for 
the fare, Hector began: 

“ Penses-tu! How then, what authority have you 
to take my money?” The conductor stared. 

“Authority?” he stammered, “but I am the con¬ 
ductor, me.” 

“Aha!” said Hector loudly, gazing round the ’bus 
and bringing the other passengers into it. “The 
conductor is he! Who knows how he has acquired 
this very accursed uniform and uses it to rob us— 
your authority if you please!” he demanded, re¬ 
turning to the bewildered man, while from the 
other end of the ’bus came Georges’ contribution. 

“It is shameful: thus to exploit us honest people! 
But what will you, with such a government!” 

The other passengers being bored with staring at 
each other, and fatigued with reading about the 
virtues of this sir op or that aperitif and at being 
advised not to scratch but to use Gulac; and over 
waiting for the rampant Lion to upset the pot of 
the famous blacking he has been guarding so long 
—while all of them who could afford it were al¬ 
ready wearing the renowned and much-advertised 
bretelles —readily welcomed the diversion, and be¬ 
gan to find relief in making sympathetic noises. 

167 


CULOT INFERNAL 


Had the conductor been a man of any char¬ 
acter probably he would have stopped the ’bus at 
the outset and pushed Lequellec off. Then to-day 
Anton Duprez would no doubt still be a minor gov¬ 
ernment official or a retired rentier of modest in¬ 
come, instead of being able to luxuriate on the 
Riviera with large diamonds and to marry bril¬ 
liantly his daughters. Yet, were you to tell him 
that at one moment his fortune depended on the 
lack of savoir faire on the part of a Parisian ’bus- 
conductor, he would stare incredulously. So soon 
and so easily do some people become accustomed 
to the position which riches give. 

But the conductor made the fatal error of argu¬ 
ing and instantly the whole inside of the ’bus was 
in the thick of it, while Georges in the background 
provided the sustained accompaniment by steadily 
cursing the government. The value of this was 
quickly apparent as Lequellec foresaw. As a jour¬ 
nalist it was his occasional metier to launch what 
his tribe call stunt phrases—the catchword that 
starts the modern public on the run. 

The Senegal crisis was then at its height and a 
war, a wholly unnecessary war, was more than a 
faint possibility. Now the country did not desire 
a war—the people were content with things as they 
168 


CULOT INFERNAL 


were. The government of the day, as is usually the 
fate of even the best intentioned government, had 
achieved great unpopularity and already more than 
one minister had been “demonstrated” against. 
This was not the old trick of French governments, 
wanting to avoid doing something, organising dem¬ 
onstrations against it, then declaring that they must 
bow to public opinion. 

As a matter of plain truth at that precise mo¬ 
ment, close together at one end of a large room 
which looked out on to the Quai d’Orsay, stood 
three obviously perturbed ministers. Two were 
average types of stout, middle-aged citizens. The 
third, who stood between them, was younger: tall 
and lean with a thick shock of long black hair, he 
clutched the lapels of his frock coat in his fists 
and frowned as he gazed at the ground. All were 
well-dressed, but more than one collar was limp. 
The strain, whatever it were, was clearly beginning 
to tell. 

For a moment the trio stood silent, the two older 
men staring alternatively at each other and at their 
more youthful colleague. It was fairly obvious 
that his was the master-mind and that the other 
two looked to him for inspiration. Raising his 
head and looking to each in turn he began to speak 
169 


CULOT INFERNAL 


in the deep voice one would have expected from 
him. 

“My friends, it is almost too much. If those 
‘demonstrations’ spread we are done. We must 
change our tactics. We must climb down, but to 
seem to do so at the bidding of a rabble . . . ,” he 
raised his shoulders in a prolonged shrug. 
“That brigand, Becasse, is behind it all. It is not 
foreign politics that interests them but the chance 
of loot. We hear to-day that they have laid him 
by the heels and he is at this moment at the Trois- 
ieme Depot , but what then? The scoundrel has a 
following and the air is electric. If we punish him 
we make a martyr—and then? No: we here run 
round in little circles talking—we must act,” and 
he took two long strides to a bell push. “Ask 
Monsieur Duprez to come,” he said to the attendant 
who appeared, and presently our friend entered 
moving quickly and bowed. 

“Listen, my good Duprez,” said the tall man. 
“You know fully the position with this individual 
Becasse. You will take twenty thousand francs 
and proceed at once by auto to the Depot number 
three. There you will see this Becasse alone.” 

Duprez started ever so slightly. 

“Have no fear, we do not think him dangerous 
170 


CULOT INFERNAL 


in that way. You will arrange matters: not only 
with him but his associates if there are any. 
Should he imagine that this will be but the begin¬ 
ning of a nice game of blackmail for him, good: 
let him think so. You see,” he went on turning to 
his colleagues, “if we reach the end of the week, 
we are safe: after that we can deal with this one 
as we like.” Turning again to Duprez, he recom¬ 
menced his instructions. “You will give no ex¬ 
planation to anyone. I myself will prepare them 
by telephone from here, and there, for the moment, 
your word will be law.” 

Anton Duprez swelled as he drew a deep breath 
of pride. 

“Twenty thousand should be sufficient for such 
a one but the money does not matter. Be dis¬ 
creet,” continued the Minister, and with a wave of 
the hand Duprez was dismissed. 

With bursting chest he sallied forth but in truth 
his feelings sank as he stepped into one of the cars 
waiting outside. Although the weather was mild 
he shuddered. It must be confessed that the 
worthy Monsieur Duprez was no Bayard. “Be- 
casse, and alone,” he murmured to himself. It 
was all very well to be told that he was not dan¬ 
gerous “in that way” but here was a man who had 
171 


CULOT INFERNAL 


actually scared official Paris. He felt inclined to 
stop the car and bolt. “Twenty thousand francs,” 
one could do a lot with that. . . . Zut! he was be¬ 
coming timid and yet. ... He removed his hat 
and wiped his forehead. A little cognac now—if 
only he dared stop, but through the coupe glass the 
forbidding-looking neck of the driver made him 
hesitate. Ha! He had it! This route would take 
him quite near his home in the Boulevard Raspail. 
He seized the speaking tube. 

“My little cabbage,” he murmured as he dashed 
into the house and embraced Madame Duprez. 
“The cognac, quick! It is an important mission I 
undertake, but yes! Ask me no questions but fill 
a small bottle with cognac. Figure to yourself the 
importance. Hasten!” 

Realising like a good French wife that her tem¬ 
perate husband had some reason for his behaviour, 
Madame Duprez wisely wasted no time but with 
a steady hand filled a medicine bottle with brandy 
and, stoppering it with the cork which she had 
held in her teeth, gave it without comment to her 
agitated spouse. With a hand that rattled the 
brandy bottle on the glass he held, Duprez helped 
himself to a heartening dram which he tossed off 
at a gulp, then, kissing Madame, he rushed away. 

172 


CULOT INFERNAL 


Thrice blessed grape! He was quite truculent 
when the commissaire received him at the Depot. 
“I see the ruffian quite alone,” he pompously an¬ 
nounced. “I require no guards. But let them be 
at hand, of course,” he added hastily, “and—er 
—armed.” “They always are,” grunted the com¬ 
missaire who resented political intrusions. 

As he waited alone in the silence of the small, 
plainly furnished room Duprez looked from one 
door to another. In Paris all such places have two 
doors: sometimes three and occasionally other in¬ 
conspicuous things and his spirits began to droop. 
Thrusting his hand into his trouser back pocket he 
pulled out his emergency supply and drained it. 
His spirits rose and—oh! blessed cordial—and in¬ 
spiration came. Skimp and save as they might, the 
dots of the two somewhat homely-looking daugh¬ 
ters Duprez mounted but slowly. Twenty thousand 
francs—what if they could manage ... He hur¬ 
riedly commenced to divide the money into four 
packages of five thousand and placed each in a 
separate pocket. 

The door facing him opened. Propelled for¬ 
ward none too gently from behind the notorious 
one appeared and they were alone. 

“See, you scoundrel,” Duprez said as impres- 
173 


CULOT INFERNAL 


sively as he could, “we, the government, have had 
enough of this. If for ten thousand francs you 
will call off your dogs and cease your demonstra¬ 
tions, you and your confederates, it is yours.” 
Becasse cleared his throat vulgarly and leered at 
Monsieur Duprez. 

“Fifteen,” said he. 

“You are no fool,” said Duprez trying to hide 
his eagerness as he pulled out the notes. 

“It will do me a month,” Becasse growled, “and 
then you will see me again.” 

“Bien, my friend,” said Duprez to himself as he 
touched the bell, “in another month we will have 
your head in the basket.” 

Two detectives appeared. 

“You will release this man,” ordered Duprez 
loftily, “and in a closed auto return him instantly 
to where you took him from. You will touch noth¬ 
ing in his possession!” 

As he sank back in a chair, Duprez mopped the 
perspiration on his face. It was his first lapse, but 
in the thought of a contribution of five thousand 
francs to his daughter’s dots, the struggle with his 
conscience was short and feeble. “Money does 
not matter,” he had been told—the result only mat¬ 
tered. He had achieved the result. But had he? 

174 


CULOT INFERNAL 


He pressed the bell nervously. “Have they gone?” 
he asked the agent who opened the door. 

“They went at once, Monsieur,” he was told. 

Still doubts assailed him. Suppose the rascal 
forgot to see his confederates, or refused to share 
with them, or told someone. Zut! No person 
would take the word of such a one. Yet, the doubts 
persisted. “Nom de Dieu!” he exclaimed, rising 
from his chair with a jump. He had forgotten to 
telephone the result of his errand. Only when he 
had got through and announced the complete suc¬ 
cess of his mission did his apprehensions begin to 
subside. 

He had hardly set down the telephone receiver, 
when a noise outside caused him to hold his breath 
and listen. The noise increased. He looked round 
but the room was only lighted by a high window 
giving on to a well so, fearing to go out, he could 
only move about and wonder. What had the 
scoundrel done? Assuredly it must be one of his 
confederates causing more trouble and he had just 
telephoned to report complete success. Thrice ac¬ 
cursed grape! Had he not touched that cognac 
. . . and he clenched his pudgy fists and shook 
them beside his ears as he agitatedly paced up and 
down. He pulled out the medicine bottle and after 
175 


CULOT INFERNAL 


a glance to see if it were quite empty, made as if 
to throw it into the stove, but, recollecting in time 
that he was in the midst of police and detectives 
he replaced it in his pocket. Then he felt for the 
remaining packet of five thousand francs. Should 
he bum them?—the stove was empty but a match 
now—yet these sons of devils, the detectives—sup¬ 
pose there were a secret spy hole? 

He glanced round furtively and, collapsing in 
his chair, he groaned. 

Banging doors and voices—many voices—in the 
room of the commissaire behind him made him 
turn. Cautiously he moved to the door, opened 
it a fraction of an inch, and listened in a moist 
anxiety. 

When we left him, Hector had risen to his feet 
in the ’bus, holding his fifty-centime piece for all 
to see. 

“Look you then!” he shouted. “I am poor but 
I am honest, me. I hold my money, but I shall 
know where it goes,” and several passengers also 
rose to express their views. 

“It marches well,” thought Georges and 
launched a louder and more comprehensive curse 
at the government. Then the driver, hearing and 
then seeing the tumult inside, stopped the ’bus and 
176 


CULOT INFERNAL 


came round to assist his colleague whose inepti¬ 
tude was producing such confusion. 

“See then,” cried the alert Hector pointing, “he 
calls his confederate to support him. Two to rob 
one poor young man—but, what assassins!” 

The Place d’ltalie is at all times a crowded 
centre and with the outside passengers climbing 
down to investigate the noise and the cause of the 
stoppage, and to add their voices to the argument, 
the excitement quickly spread to the street. 

“Let us descend, my friends,” said Hector 
loudly. “Let us have justice!” and with difficulty 
he and the dumbfounded conductor pushed 
through the people inside of the ’bus, Georges 
closing in with them as they passed. On the plat¬ 
form outside Hector stopped and harangued the 
crowded street. “Look, then, my friends, I am an 
honest fellow. I travel and I pay. I hold my 
money,” and once more the fifty-centime piece was 
held aloft. “See, he displays his money,” cried 
voices from the now interested and ever-gathering 
crowd. “And now comes this species of robber 
dressed, doubtless, in a stolen uniform and with no 
authority would take my money! Are we then 
serfs?” he shouted. 

“What will you with such a dirty government?” 

177 


CULOT INFERNAL 


cried Georges, and in an instant the street rang with 
cries against the government. 

Two agents were seen making their way through 
the crowd in the wake of the ’bus driver. “See 
there!” declaimed Hector, dramatically throwing 
out his empty hand. “His confederate brings more 
of the brigands in stolen uniforms. Four to make 
war on one innocent citizen.” 

At the word “war” the crowd burst into an angry 
roar, and surged threateningly round the mystified 
policeman who with difficulty reached the ’bus steps. 

An abiding faith in, and respect for, the majesty 
of the law and its minions can hardly be laid at 
the door of the Parisian public. Witness the widely 
appreciated efforts of all motor-car drivers to run 
down at least one policeman daily, and as history 
amply testifies, the populace there is the most com¬ 
bustible human material in the world. Almost 
pleadingly the older of the two agents asked Hector 
to pay his fare and go away, or he would have to 
come to the Depot . The journalist was relentless, 
yet with due caution. The plot had gone well but 
remembering his countryman’s dictum that the 
greatest enemy of the good is the better, he decided 
that the time had come to stage the next scene. 
Holding up both hands he shouted, “I yield me to 
178 


CU/rr 1NFKBNAL 


force, my friend*. I go but these sacred robbers 
must leave thrrir stolen ’bus and accompany us. 
Von will see justice done, rny friend s! But I am 
honest, rne!” and stepping down he placed himself 
between the two a%enti who with shouts of, “Circulez 
done, circulezl Move on there!” pressed forward, 
the ’bos conductor and driver following. 

Without in the least knowing what it all was 
about, but hearing the wildest rumours and taking 
its cue from the indefatigable Georges, who brought 
up the rear of the group voicing imprecations 
against the government, the crowd began to utter 
menacing threats. 

As they surged down the street leading to the 
I)6put several of the police in pairs ran out and, 
meeting the crowd, endeavoured to stem it. As 
well might they have whistled to Niagara to stop. 
Quickly they followed their well-known ma¬ 
noeuvre. Flattening themselves against the wall 
they allowed part of the crowd to pass, then, pres¬ 
sing across the street in line, they faced round and 
struggled to split the crowd in two and to drive the 
leading portion down the street. Too late. A few 
moments sooner they might have succeeded, but 
not now, and as blows began to be exchanged, the 
sergeant in charge of the squad collected his mm 
179 


CULOT INFERNAL 

and they fought their way to the entrance of the 
Depot . 

Inside, between the two dishevelled agents , with 
the sheepish conductor and scowling driver, Hector 
Lequellec was orating—and indeed he has a fluent 
tongue—to the commissaire. “Look you, then!” 
he said indignantly, “why am I here? Demon¬ 
strate to me your authority! Of what is this build¬ 
ing and who are you? I am an honest traveller, 
me. I travel and I pay my fare—see then!” and 
with an air, he deposited his trump card, his little 
coin, on the table before the astounded official, who 
rubbed the top of his bald head and stared. 

“Who then are these men?” demanded Le¬ 
quellec as with a theatrical gesture he indicated the 
conductor and driver then folded his arms. Both 
the ’bus company’s employees commenced to speak 
volubly and loudly: they appeared to be overflow¬ 
ing with emotion and to have much to say. The 
commissaire half closed his eyes and averted Ms 
head while he waggled the palms of his hands at 
them. The agents each held up a warning finger 
and the pair stuttered into silence. 

“You there,” began the commissaire , an inade¬ 
quate, melancholy-looking man, the monotony of 
his sallow visage broken only by a long, drooping 
180 


CULOT INFERNAL 


moustache, “what . . .” when the main door to the 
street opened letting in a roar from outside and 
the sergeant. “Monsieur le commissaire ” he 
blurted out as he gathered up his torn cape. “It 
is too much, this. The streets are blocked in every 
direction. There is nothing to be done,” and he 
turned examining ruefully his cape. 

Without pausing to reflect, the commissaire 
stepped to a window and looked over the obscured 
lower half. He was greeted with yells from the 
mob outside. “Down with the robbers!” they 
shouted, knowing nothing of the cause of the 
trouble. “Down with the government! Mort aux 
vaches /” 

“Quick—we must get more men. Telephone 
to . . . no, no, wait!” said the commissaire as the 
door opened behind him and our agitated Monsieur 
Duprez appeared, livid with rage and fear. 

“Dolt! Imbecile!” he hissed. “Would you 
then bring on us a new Affaire Dreyfus, sacred 
name of a sacred name! Bring that young man 
in here—hold the others—let no one go out,” and 
he whisked back to the other side of the door, 
through which Lequellec was immediately bundled 
by the agents, awakened to swift action by this un¬ 
expected development. 


181 


CULOT INFERNAL 


“Leave us,” snapped Duprez to the agents as 
they pushed after him into the room. “Get out! 
Go!” he shouted, and moved his arms as if he were 
swimming breast stroke. Then he turned to 
Hector. “Silence, rascal!” he snarled shaking his 
fist at him as the other attempted to orate. “A 
word from me and you will see Devil’s Island 
to-morrow!” 

“Ma foi” said the irrepressible Lequellec to 
himself, “he clearly intends to send me by aero.” 

“See then,” said Duprez, “this must be stopped. 
Is it money? Speak sense, fool.” 

Hector Lequellec’s heart jumped till it momen¬ 
tarily choked him. “What luck! Success: suc¬ 
cess,” he murmured, then pulling himself together 
he replied, “It is, Monsieur. You see before you,” 
and he struck his chest, “one who will make your 
fortune with his own, had he but a miserable ten 
thousand francs. For that sum, Monsieur, your 
future and mine will be assured.” 

“May your future be in prison,” said Duprez 
savagely, thinking of the vanishing dots. “One 
thousand francs will you receive to stop that 
rabble. Not another sou." 

“Pooh!” said Hector making a circle with his 
hand, “that would not let us make a start.” 

182 


CULOT INFERNAL 


Duprez stared. “Yes: this must be one of 
Becasse’s accomplices proposing some sort of ne¬ 
farious partnership of blackmail. . . . The tele¬ 
phone cut into his thoughts. It was his chief! 
“Yes, yes, I come at once . . . some matters to 
adjust ... I come now!” he bleated humbly and 
the receiver dropped. Utterly unable to compre¬ 
hend what Lequellec was driving at, he turned 
towards him. That person, alert although equally 
bewildered, seeing money in the offing, wondered 
what his next move should be. He could hardly 
credit his good fortune but fearing to make a false 
move, kept silent. 

“Mais vous avez le culot infernal ” said Duprez 
viciously, as he turned from the telephone, realis¬ 
ing that his innocent daughters must suffer but in 
the hopes of retrieving a corner. “See then!” he 
said resignedly, “if for four thousand francs you 
will cause to disperse this crowd—it is yours.” 

“Never!” replied Hector. “It would not pay 
our printers. Rather than take less I will go to 
this Devil’s Island you promise me,” and he folded 
his arms with a well-assumed air of pride while 
the hubbub outside increased. 

“Printers?” repeated the distracted Duprez. 
“May le bon Dieu help me to understand. Rogue 
183 


CULOT INFERNAL 


or lunatic you may be but here are the five thou¬ 
sand.” Groaning inwardly, he handed over the 
wad of notes adding, “and may you . . 

“Stop, Monsieur!” cried Hector. “I will not re¬ 
ceive this money under any misapprehension,” he 
said, carefully stowing away the notes. “I am 
neither thief nor blackmailer. Gratitude exists al¬ 
though the uneducated may desire to disbelieve 
it,” he continued raising his voice as the trembling 
Duprez took him by an arm and began to push him 
towards the door. They waltzed across the room. 
Their hands met at the handle, Duprez striving to 
open it as Hector checked the turn. “With this 
sum, small though it is,” he panted while they 
struggled, “you became joint proprietor of a 
fashion journal which will revolutionise all such 
and bring you a fortune beyond your dreams.” 
He positively shouted the last word to the bewil¬ 
dered occupants of the outer room, as the door 
was finally tom open and he was thrust through by 
the frantic Duprez, who fervently consigned him 
to all known and several unknown devils. 

But it was even so and if you are sceptical let 
us follow the good Anton Duprez as he makes one 
of his monthly trips to Paris. Ah no! Not that: 
no tales out of school. But watch him as he de- 
184 


CULOT INFERNAL 


scends with dignity from the luxurious wagon lit 
of the P. L. M. and enters a taxi. Straight to the 
Rue Taitbout he is driven and stops at the palatial 
office of the world’s most famous fashion paper. 
Up he goes in the lift and presently enters a nobly- 
furnished room, and Hector Lequellec it is who 
comes forward to meet him. The same irrespon¬ 
sible Hector, although the war has flecked his once 
jet-black hair with white and lined his merry face. 
More slowly because of the leg he left at Verdun, 
Georges Lafont rises. 

“My priceless buffoons,” is the invarying greet¬ 
ing of Anton Duprez as he goes to them with out¬ 
stretched hands. 

“Bon jour, cher oncle de Vargent," they always 
reply. 


185 



THE RING 










THE RING 

Join bravely, let us to ’t pell mell. 

—King Richard III 

T HAT the closed hand was man’s earliest 
and most natural weapon there can be 
little doubt. Even amongst the “divers 
laws” of that second book of Moses called Exodus, 
such as “strove together smiting with the fist” were 
legislated for—which may perhaps account for 
the number of the Chosen Race spread amongst 
the Fancy to-day. 

With the growing popularity of boxing as a 
spectacle—whether it has gained as a sport, others 
can decide—the enterprising impresario has seen 
to it that matches may now be witnessed by anyone 
with comfort and safety, both as to one’s person 
and one’s valuables. Indeed, so much a business 
has it become, so much do safety and comfort 
count, that to-day the game itself is frequently not 
worth watching. It has, however, a useful side, as 
it enables publicity agents to announce to a duly 
impressed public, the presence—with cigar—at 
189 


THE RING 


the ringside of self-important vanity-stricken 
gasbags. 

Gone are the days when a mill or a scrap—it is 
always a “contest” now—could only be witnessed 
by the initiated. Such initiation necessitating, in 
its earlier stages, the acquaintance with many un¬ 
savoury, if interesting characters. Yet even to-day 
muddle-headed grandmotherly legislation, impelled 
by sentimentalism instead of logic, often makes it 
easier and safer to preach treason in the market¬ 
place than to assemble to witness two men boxing. 
At every turn the natural outlets for the high spirits 
of youth and a healthy man’s superfluous energy 
are blocked by the suppression which serves the 
turn of emasculated cranks. Human nature re¬ 
mains unchanged and unchanging through the ages: 
circumstances alone can alter, and the philosophic 
Persian enunciated a great truth when he wrote 
that the memory of indiscretions is the sunshine of 
old age. Better far, as the Lowland Scots say, to 
let the tail gang wi’ the hide, when ginger can still 
be hot i’ the mouth, than to present the sordid spec¬ 
tacle of grey hairs jealously awakening too late 
to the possibilities of life, and vainly and pitifully 
endeavouring to recover a lost youth. 

The introduction of gloves, with the use of which 
190 


THE RING 


the law now tolerates public boxing contests, how¬ 
ever satisfactory to the reformer, in no way mini¬ 
mises any imaginary brutality. Indeed if brutality 
there be, it can only increase it, as protected hands 
last longer. In old P. R. days when the rules al¬ 
lowed wrestling as well as boxing, the performers 
had to toughen their hands by pickling, so that they 
might not become useless after a few rounds. In 
fights—or contests if you prefer the “genteel” word 
—which lasted a long time, the pugilist’s hands 
were usually so battered and puffed as to make it a 
painful business to hit at all, and the affair gen¬ 
erally dragged out in a sequence of striving for a 
cross-buttock until one or other, sickened with 
repeated falls, failed to toe the line. 

To-day, even as cock-fighting, driven under¬ 
ground by the kill-joys, flourishes in comers up and 
down the country, an old-fashioned bare-knuckle 
fight may at times be witnessed along Clydeside. 

Timorous old ladies in Westminster appear to 
conceive the banks of the Clyde to be populated 
by contumacious hordes of raging red communists 
—whatever they fancy that may mean. 

In reality, in so far as the native population 
goes, it is inhabited by hard-headed people given 
to reasoning out things for themselves, who will 
191 


THE RING 


not, without examining both sides of it, meekly 
accept whatever happens to be handed out to them 
by the Elected Ones. Who has not heard of the 
Kilbarchan weaver’s prayer: “Lord gie me a guid 
conceit o’ mysel’ ”? The motto of the principal 
city is a devout and seemly prayer that it—that is 
the inhabitants—may flourish. This, its citizens 
do exceedingly well, by taking it away from other 
less sophisticated peoples. Now as communism 
would seem to mean that all things are to be held 
in common, adhering to such principles necessarily 
implies the abandonment of the system under which 
they flourish. Which, as our old friend Euclid 
would say, is absurd. 

Leaving behind us the wet tramlines glistening 
in the dark under the brilliant electric lamps—you 
know that it always rains there—we turned up, or 
it may have been down a broad quiet gas-lit road. 
As we took the corner, a police inspector and con¬ 
stable standing together, looked hard at us. We 
gave them a civil good-evening. It is well to be 
polite to authority, especially when there is a dis¬ 
tinct possibility that you may soon meet again 
under different circumstances. One felt that they 
had turned to watch our movements. 

Along our right hand as far as could be seen, ran 
192 


THE RING 


a high stone wall behind which rose stacks of tim¬ 
ber. On the left, a block of tenements and a few 
small older houses, then a wall in which stood a 
large pair of wooden gates. 

We knocked at the wicket, which opened so 
quickly that the alert custodian must have marked 
our footsteps stop. Recognised, we passed in. At 
the end of the road the two policemen were staring 
hard after us. 

We found ourselves in an enclosed space, dimly 
lit at the far end by a flickering oil lamp. Over 
slippery cobblestones we stumbled in the dark, 
through a long narrow yard smelling of wet tar¬ 
paulin. Tripping over cart-shafts and picking our 
way through a raffle of junk, we reached a door 
below the lamp, and again knocked. A square 
peephole opened so quietly, that the strong shaft 
of light flooding through, struck one like a blow. 
A face appeared, the features indistinguishable 
with the strong light behind. Apparently the scru¬ 
tiny was satisfactory, for we were passed in without 
anything being said. It is remarkable that at 
neither door was a word spoken. 

We found ourselves in a low-roofed stone-built 
building some sixty feet square, redolent of bad 
gas, resin and stale sweat. It looked like an out- 
193 


THE RING 


house of some once-flourishing farm, which the 
stretching tentacles of the ever-spreading city had 
reached across. Round the walls, and from the 
roof, the place was lavishly lit with gas, which, 
through incandescent burners, threw a ghastly green 
tint on the thinly whitewashed walls which dripped 
moisture. In the centre stood the ring with three 
tiers of ropes. The corner-posts with thickly 
padded tops, were braced to the floor with ropes 
led to ringbolts. Round the ring itself were three 
or four rows of backless wooden benches. Behind 
these the wooden floor was quite bare. 

About a score of persons in greatly varying 
walks of life were seated in irksome expectant 
silence round the ring, in which a youth in a grey 
sweater was moving about, sprinkling powdered 
resin on the boards, stopping now and again to 
place his heel on a large lump and grind it down. 
In each of the two opposite comers of the building 
farthest away from the door, several other youths 
in sweaters fussed round their man, already 
stripped, putting the finishing touches to his toilet. 
Everyone spoke in low tones. 

Between them, about a dozen others stood wrang¬ 
ling fiercely. Half of them were obviously Tyne¬ 
side Geordies and the others as obviously belonged 
194 


THE RING 


to the district. The two parties were huddled 
together behind their apparent leaders who, glar¬ 
ing at each other like terriers in leash, led the 
arguments. 

Although we are told that England does not 
properly begin till south of Trent, the two types 
were as distinct as East and West. The sharp 
staccato cadence and nipped vowel of Glasgow 
jarred against the broad, soft Northumberland 
burr. The Geordies were all fairer of hair and 
skin; more freshly coloured; thicker set and more 
“beefy” than the Scotsmen, who ran more to leg 
and bone. It seemed to an onlooker that the 
strangers were more placid; more reasonable, not 
to say soft, while the local men were sullen and 
irascible, and left the impression that they would 
just as soon fight as argue. 

Then the group turned their heads in our direc¬ 
tion, and the two leaders, leaving the others snarl¬ 
ing, passed round the comer of the ring, and came 
across to where we stood. The visitor left the talk¬ 
ing to the other, who swiftly explained. It was a 
“needle” fight. Parenthetically, and for the bene¬ 
fit of the uninitiated—for who so rash as to teach 
the sucking of eggs—a “needle” fight is one where 
sometimes there is as much personal ill-feeling 
195 


THE RING 


between the principals as might account for mur¬ 
der. As a general rule however, and in the present 
instance, it had all arisen over an acute difference 
of opinion as to respective merit. 

The antagonists were Wattie Noble of Jarrow, 
and Chookie Rattray of Renfrew. The conditions 
were simple; catch-weights with bare knuckles over 
ten two-minute rounds. Each had his own money 
down, which is not unusually a guarantee of good 
faith and earnestness, and the affair was to be 
brought off quietly before the more orthodox 
“club” show at eight o’clock. It was then after 
seven, and it all looked like ending in a free fight, 
or at the best in a fiasco. 

The explanation of the trouble was that the vis¬ 
iting gentlemen had brought their own stakeholder 
and referee. And we had thought that they looked 
soft. Canny Newcastle! The locals, blandly ig¬ 
noring the fact that they had produced their own 
stakeholder and referee, were expressing righteous 
indignation over the others’ lack of faith. We 
seemed to offer a way out of the deadlock: would 
one of us act as referee and the other as stake¬ 
holder? 

I firmly refused both honours and also the office 
of timekeeper: I desired to look on, not to cock an 
196 


THE RING 


apprehensive eye at a watch dial. My friend, who 
knows the game in theory and practice quite as 
well as is necessary for the job, and who besides, 
is blessed with a sufficiency of bulk to be impres¬ 
sive, finally consented to referee. A respectable, 
but very reluctant “gent” at the ringside had the 
stake-money, in the shape of two wads of greasy 
banknotes, thrust on him to hold, but he vigorously 
protested at being made to hold any bets. It was 
instructive to observe that, after careful counting, 
he thrust the notes into an inside pocket, and, al¬ 
though the place was becoming unpleasantly warm, 
buttoning jacket and overcoat, he sat with tightly 
folded arms through it all. 

A word to the doorkeeper and he disappeared 
into the yard, the door being locked and barred 
behind him. 

The two men, with overcoats slung on their naked 
shoulders, ducked through the ropes and sat on 
wooden chairs in their respective comers. Two 
seconds followed each into the ring, whilst outside, 
a third fiddled with towels and sponges and a tin 
basin half-filled with water. The spectators, of 
whom there were not quite half a hundred, took 
their seats around the ropes, the visitors bunching 
to one side of the ring and the locals to the other. 

19 ? 


THE RING 


Along a third side was a narrow unvarnished deal 
table, at which the referee and timekeeper took 
their seats, while I, in virtue of my friend’s status, 
was invited to occupy a third chair beside them. 
With a solemnity which would have been creditable 
in a bishop, the timekeeper rose, and, speaking 
softly, as though a whole squad of police were lis¬ 
tening outside, introduced the two aspirants. 

“Why, ‘Chookie’?” I asked him, as the referee 
stood up to call the two opponents to him for final 
warnings. 

“Weel, ye see, his feyther used tae deal in 
poultry, so the folks ca’ed him the chookie—choker 
—thrawin’ chickens’ necks, d’ye see? And this 
yin was aye ca’ed Wee Chookie. He’s a game yin 
—d’ye want a bet?” But I declined. 

The pair had slipped off their coats, and stood 
in front of us while the referee addressed them. 
Noble, I was informed, was the heavier, and had 
weighed just ten stone and ten pounds. About five 
foot nine, he was a good inch shorter than his op¬ 
ponent. He appeared to be about twenty-one years 
old, and, from his long fair hair to his feet, his 
sturdy figure made a picture of athletic manhood. 
As he moved, his muscles rippled under a smooth 
pink skin as innocent of hair as a child’s. Al- 
198 


THE RING 


though he had a deceptive look of plumpness, a 
discerning eye could see that he was trained to the 
minute, and his waist was as trig as a girl’s above 
his black worsted shorts, which, with shoes, was 
all that either wore. 

With arms akimbo, he stood leaning slightly 
back on his right foot, smiling with frank grey eyes 
at the referee as he waited to hear his instructions. 
These were the care-free days before Armageddon, 
and, looking back, one realises that there was the 
true infantry type that did so much, and cheer¬ 
fully underwent so much, to win the war. 

His taller opponent stood grimly leaning for¬ 
ward, gripping the rope with his left hand. Being 
darker he looked older; perhaps twenty-four. Al¬ 
though nearly half a stone lighter, his shoulders 
were broader and his hairy forearms heavier. 
Leaner in the hip and leg, his iron-hard muscles 
shewed as if outlined with blue chalk. His dark 
hair, worn long like Noble’s, grew low on a broad 
intelligent forehead. But there was no smile nor 
mirth in the eyes that gazed unwinking at the 
referee. 

It is passing strange, when one reflects on the 
part that eyesight plays in boxing, that the fashion 
of long hair set by Choynski and Corbett has uni- 
199 


THE RING 


versally prevailed in the ring. It is really astound¬ 
ing to see men, to whom one quick blow may mean 
fame and fortune or disaster, lifting their hands 
to push hair out of their eyes. 

“Shake hands,” ordered the referee, “and don’t 
forget that each round starts when ‘time’ is called.” 

Gay and debonair, the pride of Jarrow quickly 
put out his hand with a smile. No less quickly it 
was taken but not a muscle moved in his opponent’s 
face. 

“Now, I’m not coming into the ring,” the referee 
went on. “If you get into a clinch, you can hit 
yourselves free. If either of you fouls, he’ll be 
warned once : no more. Understand?” 

“Yes,” smiled the Englishman. The other mere¬ 
ly nodded his head. 

“Off you go then,” and each returned to his 
comer. 

“Seconds out,” breathed the timekeeper without 
looking up from his watch, and the men stood up 
in the angles of the corners, each hand lightly hold¬ 
ing the top rope. 

“Time!” and they were circling round each other 
in the centre of the square; savage determined ter¬ 
rier and a good natured tenacious bulldog. One 
can guess which would hearken first to the craven 
200 


THE RING 


squeal of “kamerad” and realize why Divisional 
Generals in the years that followed, squabbled and 
intrigued to collect the tartan. 

Suddenly Noble dashed at his man as though he 
would flog him off the face of the earth before he 
could realize what had happened. With a sliding 
motion Rattray imperceptibly slipped back, and al¬ 
most in the same movement swung forward and 
lashed out a wicked straight left, flush on Noble’s 
face, which checked the rush, and before Noble 
could clinch or get out of distance, he had caught 
two vicious hooks from Rattray’s right. 

Round after round it continued: Noble rushing 
and Rattray meeting him, always with that piston¬ 
like left arm popping out, timed to an instant. 
Pass it, Noble could not. Nothing daunted, he 
came up smiling again and again, and, ever on his 
toes, dashed like a pink rubber ball at the stone¬ 
like figure before him. The struggle was as free 
from any attempt at unfair work as a Sunday- 
school treat. 

Round the ring, complete tense silence prevailed, 
the only sounds being the tap, tap of Noble’s feet 
as he sprang lightly in and out: the smack, smack 
as counter followed lead, or the crunch along the 
resined boards as Rattray’s stealthy glide took him 
201 


THE RING 


out of danger or into hitting distance. So far he 
was ahead in points. Try as he would Noble could 
not reach that dark rugged head. 

Then Noble changed his tactics. For several 
intervals, his seconds had been vigorously hissing 
advice at him, while they fanned, and sponged, and 
rubbed. Fresh and gay as ever his training left 
him with little sign of the hammering he had taken, 
and thrown off with no more effort than a retriever 
shaking himself after a swim. He still rushed— 
but now at Rattray’s body. Heedless of the punch 
he sometimes had to take to get there, he would 
not be denied, and bored in with both hands busy. 
Defense he ignored. To win, he must concentrate 
on attack, and when Rattray came up to the call 
of “time” after that round, his lean flanks shewed 
many dull red splotches. 

Staying power is wind. Knock the wind out of 
a man or a horse and he is helpless. Nothing 
pulls a fighter down so quickly to a point where he 
is easily knocked out, as constant hammering on 
the body. Well, Rattray knew it, but he had not 
that broad forehead and those wide-set eyes for 
nothing. His unflurried brain was working it all 
out. There was no whispering advice nor exhorta¬ 
tions from the seconds in his corner. He knew the 
202 


THE RING 


game as well as any, so they wisely left him alone. 
“Time” was again called. 

Rattray had barely risen from his chair; he was 
still in his comer, when, like an infuriated ram, 
Noble hurled himself across the ring to finish it. 
Elated at his turn of success, his seconds had chat¬ 
tered at him so much during the interval that he 
must have slightly lost his judgment. 

But Rattray was not there. Just in the nick of 
time with his stealthy glide he side-stepped his op¬ 
ponent’s rush, and, turning as he moved, still un¬ 
balanced, Rattray took one of the biggest risks a 
boxer can take—he led with his right. Once, 
twice, thrice, like lightning he swung, shifting his 
ground with each blow till he had fairly penned 
the other against the ropes in the comer. Relent¬ 
lessly he rained his half-arm punches. Noble bent 
his body into an arch. Down went the yellow head 
till his chin nestled on the broad chest: up came 
the massive deltoids till they seemed to touch his 
ears; close to his ribs he hugged his elbows, while 
his hands protected the sides of his head. He was 
like a tortoise which had tucked its head into its 
shell. Watching Rattray’s feet he saw him shift— 
instantly with an upward shove he pressed out, 
and, resting his head on Rattray’s chest, he thrust 
203 


THE RING 


forward, banging his opponent’s ribs till they 
closed in the first clinch since it began. 

The referee rose but there was no need. He 
had hardly opened his mouth when they sprang 
apart. Then, from being attacked, Rattray be¬ 
came the aggressor. As a cobra strikes, his long 
whipcord arms flashed out, and slip, duck, counter 
as he would Noble steadily lost points. 

“Time” was called for the last round. 

Noble rushed no more. He knew he was behind 
on points: he knew his only chance of winning was 
by a knock-out. Undaunted, and brisk as ever, he 
danced in and out, feinting, dodging, trying to 
make or see an opening which would enable him 
to bring off a desperate chance and lay out this 
dangerous saturnine figure. But Rattray was in no 
hurry. He felt that he must win on points, and 
would take no risk of leaving himself open. He 
slid about, ever holding that menacing left hand 
forward. Of course, if he got an opening himself, 
he would take it. Perhaps he thought he was not 
so much ahead on points, and had better end it if 
he could. 

Both did the same thing simultaneously. 

A feint with the left hand: the right swung across 
to the unguarded chin and the pair were lying 
oblivious on the floor. 


204 


THE RING 


Without volition I had jumped to my feet. I 
glanced round the ring; everyone was on his feet 
except the case-hardened timekeeper, who monoton¬ 
ously chanted out the passing of the seconds. 

“One, . . . two, . . three . . The referee 
climbed into the ring. “Four . . . five ... six 
. . . seven . . .” Would either rise? Noble 
rolled his head and feebly tried to turn on his side. 
Rattray never stirred. “Eight . . . nine . . . 
out!” 

Yes “out” but who? 

What of the bets? Suppose one had been 
backed to beat the other—he had failed. What 
then? I looked anxiously at my friend. The sec¬ 
onds had jumped in and dragged their men to the 
corners, where they were busy over them with 
sponge and flask. One of Rattray’s seconds was 
twisting his ears. 

Every pair of eyes was on the referee. He told 
me afterwards that he knew in that moment exactly 
how Daniel felt in his den of lions. It did not re¬ 
quire an over-vivid imagination to realise what 
might happen if he gave a wrong decision. To 
gain a moment he returned to the ropes, ducked 
under and slowly resumed his seat. 

“Sit down, everybody,” said the timekeeper. 

Slowly the ringsiders subsided. As they sat 
205 


THE RING 


down a subdued but excited murmur broke out 
among them. I looked at the reluctant stake¬ 
holder. He had not risen, but sat, a picture of ap¬ 
prehension, with arms still tightly folded. Then 
my friend rose and announced: “Neither contestant 
answered the call of “Time!” The decision is ‘no 
contest.’ Stakes returned and all bets off.” 

I breathed freely once more. He must have 
been inspired. 

As the two late contestants were being assisted 
to their respective impromptu dressing rooms in 
the comers of the building, the door was thrown 
open and the “members” swarmed in. 

Nearly all wore soft caps with large peaks and 
the grey collared sweater seemed universal. As 
many of them must have been standing in the yard 
for some time in a drizzling rain, they brought 
with them that heavy indescribable odour of damp 
and not over-clean humankind, to mingle in the 
blend of gas, sweat and rank tobacco, which, with 
the nauseating smell of almond hair-dressing, soon 
pervaded the place. Here and there was notice¬ 
able the bowler hat and clean linen of some bour¬ 
geois sportsman. These latter were ushered, or, 
to be more exact, they were shoved through the 
crowd to the deal benches. On these, with much 
206 


THE RING 


objurgation from those already seated, they were 
wedged, for which doubtful privilege they each 
had parted with one sovereign. Those in the front 
row had their noses literally on the ropes, with the 
knees of the second row “gents” jammed into their 
backs. They none of them looked too happy, and 
now and again one would furtively slip a hand in¬ 
side his overcoat, as if to reassure himself that his 
watch and pocketbook—if he had been so foolish 
as to carry such things—were still with him, and 
had not been removed by some person to whom he 
had not even been introduced. We were pressed 
to remain at the table, but modestly retired and 
took up a strategic position near the door. We 
were both sufficiently tall to see over the heads in 
front. 

The place was soon packed to suffocation. Im¬ 
mediately in front of us wheezed an overdressed 
fat fellow slightly known to both. Sadly handi¬ 
capped by nature, and in consequence unable to 
shine in performance himself, his life’s desire was 
to be labelled as a Corinthian, and to be recognised 
as a patron of sport. His effort that night had cost 
him a wasted sovereign. Arriving late, his en¬ 
deavour to push through and claim his seat had 
been discouraged by the pointed threats of those 
207 


THE RING 


intervening. His bleating request to be allowed to 
pass through was stifled by a coarse injunction to 

“shut his-mouth” the speaker describing that 

organ by an adjective which strictly speaking even 
perversion could not apply to it. 

Presumably as an appetiser, a short contest be¬ 
tween two enthusiastic, if not over-scientific youths 
was staged. Bang, biff, bang, went the gloves, as 
they slogged at it hammer and tongs, making up 
in zeal what they lacked in skill. Happily there 
were only four rounds. 

Then followed what looked like being a most in¬ 
teresting bout between two light-weights, one a 
negro. Unfortunately, it came to an untimely end 
through the head of the son of Ham coming into 
violent contact with one of the comer posts. Slip¬ 
ping on some spilled water just as he received a 
flush hit on the point, he collapsed. They dragged 
him away, and the legend of the invulnerability of 
the negro head took the list. Various disappointed 
backers of the coon made loud and violent sug¬ 
gestions as to what should be done with him. 

Then the solemn timekeeper announced the last 
turn, the tit-bit of the evening, other than the 
private seance at which we had assisted. It was 
between two middle-weights, Paddy Kelly and Inky 
208 



THE RING 


Harris, the latter so called, we were informed by 
a friendly bystander, for the reason that when 
unpleasant circumstances compelled him to stoop 
to regular work, he did so in a printing establish¬ 
ment. 

But however nimble Mr. Harris may have been 
in slinging ink, or whatever it is that printers amuse 
themselves with, he seemed signally unable to 
leave his mark on his opponent. Kelly, although 
his punches lacked steam, was a rapid hitter. Like 
a hackney he was all action and no pace. He drove 
his man all over the ring and appeared to hit him 
whenever he liked. 

Several monotonous rounds of this dragged on 
and, as it was announced for twenty, we were just 
about to leave, when a small person, undistin¬ 
guished in any way except that he had Yiddisher 
written all over him, squeezed slowly across our 
front. As he passed the obese would-be Corin¬ 
thian, he apologised for jostling him, then turning 
away and speaking apparently into vacancy, he 
said, not loudly, but quite clearly: ‘‘Harris wins 
for a hundred—who wants it?” At the same time 
he held up, that all who cared might see, a veri¬ 
table one-hundred-pound note. Without deigning 
to glance back he slowly edged away, moving a few 
209 


THE RING 


inches at a step, while he repeated his offer and 
continued to flourish the banknote. “Harris wins 
for a hundred.” 

Our fat friend began to shew signs of excite¬ 
ment. 

Although he had inherited so much money that 
an ordinary person would have been ashamed to 
possess it, the thought that he might miss winning a 
hundred pounds so easily, was making him quite 
unhappy. “It’s money for nothing,” he spluttered 
over his shoulder to us. “Look! Harris simply 
couldn’t win, could he?” 

We were looking, and certainly it seemed as if 
the Inky one were not having too good a time. At 
the slow pace he was travelling he might reach his 
destination very soon: which is not such a contra¬ 
dictory statement as it seems. Still, it was none of 
our business. Indeed if the truth be told, base 
knaves that we are, we rather hoped that the novi¬ 
tiate would flop into it. 

“Here! Hey!” he called to the holder of the 
hundred, and as calmly as if he had expected it, the 
Jew turned and pushed through to him. 

“I’ll take you,” said Fatty. 

“Right,” said the Yid, “here’s my money— 
yours?” 


210 


THE RING 


“But I don’t carry hundred pound notes with 
me,” bleated the stout sportsman, cocking an anx¬ 
ious eye at the ring where Kelly was still ener¬ 
getically handing it out to Harris. 

“But you have your cheque-book surely; your 
cheque is quite good enough for me, sir.” 

Fatty lugged out his cheque-book and a fountain 
pen. 

“Make it to bearer,” added the Child of Ghetto, 
mysteriously producing a piece of wood which he 
held up as a desk for the writing. Such attention 
to detail compelled respect. 

With a final glance at the ring Fatty wrote. 

An accommodating person was found to hold the 
stakes: we again declined, having no desire to be 
in any way involved in the education of a mug. 

The sequel soon developed. 

How the signal was sent we never fathomed, for 
the hundred-pound merchant remained with us, 
and, although we kept as sharp a look-out as ever 
did Sister Anne, neither he nor anyone else seemed 
to move. 

In the very next round, Mr. Harris came out of 
his trance and from being receiver-general he be¬ 
gan to sadly discomfort Paddy by sending over a 
positive hail of blows, finally landing him a heart- 
211 


THE RING 


ening thump below his left ear with a swinging 
right. Mr. Kelly subsided gently to the floor and 
remained there. It was quite an artistic bit of 
business. 

As we moved out into the relief of the whole¬ 
some wet night, and picked our way over the cob¬ 
blestones in the yard, Fatty breathed dire 
vengeance. 

“The whole thing was a plant,” he burbled, 
“I’m going to tell the police.” 

We told him he would probably find some out¬ 
side and left him. 

Whether he were following their advice or acting 
on his own initiative is immaterial, but early next 
morning outside a branch of a well-known bank, 
an enormous cream-coloured limousine slid pon¬ 
derously to a standstill. The design must have 
broken the coachbuilder’s heart. It only required 
a cloud of steam and a smell of fish to complete 
the illusion. A door, adorned with a crest, or it 
might have been a coat of arms, like a Swiss hotel 
label, opened, and Fatty flounced out. 

He banged into the bank where he was received 
by the manager who greeted him warmly. It is 
pleasant to be able to record this, as, to many, a 
banker is a professional pessimist who sits in a 
212 


THE RING 


usually gloomy room and says “no.” But it may 
make a difference to own an odd million or two 
and a motor car like a perambulating potato stall. 

Together the banker and his client advanced to 
the counter. 

“I am very sorry,” said the teller, “it was cashed 
almost the instant we had opened our doors, only a 
few minutes ago.” 


213 











THE REAL THING 











THE REAL THING 


In a vale in the land of Moab, there stands a lonely grave. 

—C. F. Alexander. 

T HE regiment halted. To the practiced eye 
this unit was what a civilian might have 
called self-supporting. The bulging haver¬ 
sacks of the men, the feeds on the saddles, the extra 
blanket, all told their tale. It was clear that if the 
body of the enemy located that morning by native 
scouts on their swift Bisharin camels had again felt 
the draught and flitted, these horsemen were pre¬ 
pared to push on and find him—if not that day, 
then the next, sleeping and watering where they 
could. Two grim-looking motor-driven ambu¬ 
lance cars at the tail of the column were gruesome 
evidence of the hope and determination to fight. 

On every hand, save for a solitary quivering 
mirage, the apparently unbroken sweep of the 
desert stretched to the shimmering horizon in a 
monotony of sandy grey. The awful sense of iso¬ 
lation, the utter hostility of nature, seemed to have 
silenced the most irrepressible chatter-box, and the 
217 


THE REAL THING 


hum of voices that usually follows a halt was 
strangely lacking. 

But not for long. No country has a monopoly of 
brave men—lions and hares will be found under 
every flag—but for one quality the British soldier 
stands alone: his unquenchable cheerfulness and 
talkativeness, even though he only open his mouth 
to grouse. Pipes and “fags” soon appeared, and, 
as one might put it, conversation became general. 

“I wonder if these blokes that write about horses 
ever had a leg across one in their lives,” remarked 
Trooper Pentley, looking up from a tattered maga¬ 
zine he had drawn from a capacious pocket and 
addressing the others of his section. “Just listen 
to this: ‘Mounted on his Clydesdale, our hero 
spurred into the throng, thrusting and cutting like 
one of the old-time knights!’ I’d like to have seen 
him spurring old hairy-heels. And here he goes 
again: ‘Caressing his gallant steed as they rested 
after their glorious charge, he pulled out a hand¬ 
ful of sugar.’ Good thing the Quarterbloke didn’t 
spot him, but, Lord, do listen here! ‘She was 
a lovely creature with a satin skin, a cross be¬ 
tween an Arab and a Suffolk Punch.’ What a 
pleadin’ menagerie—and he calls it ‘The Real 
Thing.’ ” 


218 


THE REAL THING 


“Wonder what the real thing is like,” said 
another trooper, sprawling full length, reins in 
hand, beside Pentley. 

“Well, you’re likely to know fast enough,” re¬ 
marked a corporal, observing a movement at the 
head of the column, “so shove away that liter-a- 
choor and stand-to.” 

Slowly Pentley rose to his feet and, more from 
habit than from any consciousness of what he was 
doing, he mechanically ran a hand over his horse 
and saddlery, touching buckles and straps, setting 
the blankets straight and tightening the girth. 
“Poor old lady,” he said, affectionately patting his 
horse’s neck, “it’s damn little sugar we see, and as 
for your satin skin, well, never mind, we’ll gallop 
over a bit of green stuff again some day. I won¬ 
der what the real thing will be like,” he mused. 
“Seems funny to enlist to fight the Germans and 
then to find yourself out here in this godless stink¬ 
ing desert, chasing a crowd of blasted Christy 
Minstrels who are never ten minutes in one place. 
I feel queer to-day, I don’t think I’ll be afraid— 
no, I’m not afraid—I never was a funk. I stood 
up to Shady Sutton and beat him easy, though he 
could give me a stone.” The thought of being at 
last close to the actuality of fighting made him 
219 


THE REAL THING 


grope in his mind for something to hold on to and 
which he could not find. 

When the order “Mount!” rang down the col¬ 
umn, for “Prepare to mount” and other “book” 
commands do not find their way into the desert, his 
movements were still mechanical and his thoughts 
far away. 

Signs of something doing were becoming evi¬ 
dent, and presently all eyes were looking across at 
a little cloud of dust on the right flank which soon 
resolved itself into a mounted man galloping all 
out back to the column. Now messages are not de¬ 
livered to the rank and file, but in the halt that 
followed the galloper’s arrival, with the uncanny 
telepathy that pervades units in action, it became 
known that the right flank guard had “found” and 
had been fired on. That no firing had been heard 
was not astonishing: mounted troops moving in 
level country throw their scouts far afield and the 
racket of a moving column quickly drowns the 
noise of rifles unless close at hand. 

The adjutant galloped past. 

“Cheero! we’re for it!” said Pentley’s neigh¬ 
bour, and the squadron moved out to the threatened 
flank in column of troops. Breaking into a canter, 
they opened out in extended order. 

220 


THE REAL THING 


For a mile or two nothing happened to break 
the monotonous hammering of shod feet on rocky 
ground, for, be it remembered, the desert is not all 
sand, and where the wind has cleared the surface 
off the rocky subsoil the “going” resembles riding 
on pavement, except that pavement is generally 
reasonably smooth. 

Galloping fast ahead was an officer with two 
troopers on that most delicate of all cavalry jobs, 
advance guard to a rapidly moving body with no 
fixed objective. And what has so often happened, 
happened now. Slightly altering direction, the 
squadron quickly lost the line of the advanced 
scouts, who, noticing the change, had to gallop 
hard, almost at right angles across the squadron 
front, to take up direction again. At that mo¬ 
ment a single rifle went off, followed apparently 
from nowhere by a rapid fusillade. 

It is a singular fact that, firing from a lying posi¬ 
tion at mounted men, the marksman more often 
than not misses clean, and this time the whine of 
the bullets overhead was nowhere answered by that 
sickening smack which tells that a bullet has found 
its billet, and seemed to show that there is some 
truth in the saying that it takes a ton of lead to 
kill a man. 


221 


THE REAL THING 


“Steady now, men, steady!” said a recently pro¬ 
moted and over-anxious sergeant. 

Although his interjection was quite impersonal, 
and probably addressed as much to himself as to 
anyone else, one or two hearty lads who thought 
it conveyed a reflection on them, or that the remark 
was quite uncalled for, found time in the hurly- 
burly to reply after the fashion of Raleigh’s classic 
flourish of trumpets with which he answered the 
massed guns at Cadiz. 

Wheeling to their right flank, the horsemen 
swung on in good order till they reached one of the 
shallow arms of an enormous wadi which gradu¬ 
ally dipped and widened into what looked for all 
the world like a gigantic prehistoric quarry. 

For the reason explained, it was gratifying, 
though not astonishing, to find that no one had been 
hit, although, had the warrior who loosed off first 
been able to keep his trigger finger quiet a few mo¬ 
ments longer, the toll might have been different. 

Having found good cover for their horses in the 
wadi, the now dismounted troopers lined the rim 
of their shelter, while the squadron leader himself 
went out to reconnoitre. 

Sotto voce —more or less—the men cracked 
jokes and “chipped” each other, indifferent to a 
222 


THE REAL THING 


desultory fire from the enemy, for the legend of 
the Briton’s tendency to laugh in the jaws of death 
itself is no myth.. But while the man next to him 
was blithely humming an old music hall chorus, 
Pentley lay gazing fixedly at the grey ground in 
front of him. Glancing sideways to see if he were 
observed, he stealthily felt his pulse—no, it was 
quite steady. “What is it that’s wrong with me 
to-day?” he pondered. “I feel exactly as if I 
had eaten nothing for weeks. They’ve stopped fir¬ 
ing—how quiet everything has gone—how long 
have we been lying here—I wonder what the others 
are feeling like? Good God! There was a man— 
was it Comfoot? Yes, old Bill Cornfoot—actually 
yawning! Ah! there’s the major coming back— 
wonder what he’s going to do—hope he gets a move 
on soon, it’s this damned waiting that’s getting on 
my nerves. I know I’ll be all right when we get 
into it.” 

In tense silence, forgetting in their keenness that 
they had ever in their lives been told how vital it 
was to always “look to your front,” every pair of 
eyes was directed on the major and his second-in- 
command, now in earnest consultation. After ex¬ 
changing a few words, the squadron leader told a 
man to mount and handed him a hastily scribbled 
223 


THE REAL THING 


message with the words: “Back to the colonel; gal¬ 
lop like hell.” Somewhat superfluous, for as the 
trooper scrambled his horse out of the far side of 
the dip he was saluted with a scatter of shots from 
the ever watchful enemy which sent him off like a 
streak to the main body. 

“Mount—draw swords!” came the order. 

“Swords!” whispered Pentley. “Then it’s to be 
the real thing after all!” 

In column of sections the squadron set off down 
the wadi, its sides gradually rising steeply on each 
hand. “Gallop!” was signalled, and away they 
went. The intention was clear: down one arm and 
up another, taking the Arabs in their rear, to drive 
them out. But the son of the desert leads too pre¬ 
carious and watchful an existence to be easily 
caught asleep, and from the safe cover of the rocky 
sides unsuspected snipers kept up a galling fire on 
the little band. Well for them that they were 
horsemen before they were soldiers, for they were 
galloping over ground that no sane man would 
have cared to walk a horse through in cold blood. 
But risks must be taken in war, and victory fol¬ 
lows the leader who makes his chance more often 
than he who merely takes it when it presents itself. 
Jumping the smaller rocks, swerving round the 
224 


THE REAL THING 


boulders, cursing when a horse stumbled, jesting 
when the other fellows did, losing formation and 
finding it again, the squadron pressed on, and at 
last Pentley found himself breasting the slope, feel¬ 
ing an overwhelming desire to close with the enemy 
and get it over. 

They in the meantime had not waited. Changing 
front, they were already lining the edge of their 
saucer facing the direction of the expected attack, 
which their instinct told them would assuredly be 
sent home. 

Once more on the level, rapidly forming line 
while on the move, with a shout the horsemen drove 
across and down on the Arabs. 

It seemed to Pentley that he galloped for years 
looking at those white figures ahead, and the noise 
of the firing sounded like a boy drawing a stick 
along street railings at home. 

Crash! and he was down with the worst of all 
things that can happen to a cavalryman in action— 
pinned by the leg under his dead horse. Mistily he 
gazed round, tried to rise, and fell back with a 
groan. He was helpless. Despite the sword knot, 
his weapon had flown from his hand and was yards 
away. He thought of his rifle. Vainly he reached 
for the bucket—every movement was torture to his 
225 


THE REAL THING 

crushed limb and brought a scream of agony to his 
lips. 

What was happening? His thoughts raced. 
Where were the others? Would they come back 
for him? Surely they wouldn’t leave him like this. 
The noise of the charge was leaving him. The 
sound of firing, the shrill cries of the Arabs min¬ 
gled with the thudding of horses’ feet and the 
shouting of his comrades died away. Half stunned 
with the fall and sick with pain, Pentley lay with 
his heart throbbing so loudly that the world 
seemed filled with the sound of it. 

A consciousness of something indefinable made 
him turn his head—to see an Arab slip from be¬ 
hind a rock. Moving as cautiously as a cat, the 
Bedouin took in the situation at a glance. 

Fascinated and horror-stricken, Pentley rallied 
his wits and made another desperate effort to free 
his leg and reach his rifle. In vain, and faint with 
the effort he fell heavily back. Satisfied that there 
was no danger, the Arab crept forward with an evil 
grin. Licking his lips, he raised his rifle, then, on 
a second thought, lowered it. Cartridges are pre¬ 
cious in the desert. 

Feeling in the folds of his jibbeh, he drew a 
knife- 


226 











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